In Hue, under a clear sky, I stood before an old light blue car, parked in a corner of the Từ Đàm temple. It wasn’t abandoned but preserved like a treasure, protected from sun and rain, as a precious object. The license plate, DBA 599, probably references a South Vietnamese regime vehicle used before 1975. Next to it, a sign explains in Vietnamese and English:

“A relic. With this car, Thích Quảng Đức traveled from the Ấn Quang pagoda to the intersection of Phan Đình Phùng and Lê Văn Duyệt streets on June 11, 1963, in Saigon. Upon exiting the car, he sat in the lotus position and set himself on fire, dying to protest against Ngô Đình Diệm’s discriminatory policies.”

No further comment. Only those words were enough to awaken in me the curiosity and the need to understand who Thích Quảng Đức really was and what that journey from a Saigon pagoda to the place of a final appointment with life, on that blue car that moved without hesitation toward a fire destined to ignite the conscience of the world. I noticed it because it had nothing to do with the rest: no other vehicle, no sign of modernity. Only that old “Austin,” frozen in time.

The car did not belong to Thích Quảng Đức: it had been lent to him by a lay Buddhist for that dramatic move, and after 1963, it was taken to Huế, a city symbol of religious repression, and kept as a relic. An elderly monk, seeing me fixate on the car, approached silently. With a faint voice, in rough English, he told me:

“This car was used that day. It did not leave from here, but from Saigon. It was with this that Thích Quảng Đức arrived at the intersection… and sat in the fire.”

He said no more. There was no need. At that moment, I understood that I was not just observing an antique vehicle. I was looking at the means that had carried a man from a temple to a crossroads, and from there to eternity.
And I decided to retrace that journey.

The intersection of history

In Ho Chi Minh City, the intersection of Nguyễn Đình Chiểu and Cách Mạng Tháng Tám (formerly Phan Đình Phùng and Lê Văn Duyệt) is busy, noisy, full of motorbikes and cars. On the southeast corner of the intersection between Nguyễn Đình Chiểu and Cách Mạng Tháng Tám, there is today a stone monument dedicated to Thích Quảng Đức. It is not a temple, nor a monumental building, but a simple and well-maintained structure. On the façade, a white bas-relief depicts him in a meditative, serene pose, surrounded by lush leaves. In front, a richly decorated incense burner. The monument is enclosed between two yellow and red gates, with traditional Asian motifs, like those of temples, topped by two white lanterns. In front, fresh flowers, lit incense sticks, fruit offerings.

Across the street, along the sidewalk, there is a second monument, apparently made of bronze, more minimal. In the center, a figure depicts the monk engulfed in flames, seated in a lotus position, motionless. At the base, a clear engraved inscription in Vietnamese characters:

bồ tát

Thích Quảng Đức
1897 – 1963

Bồ tát is a Vietnamese word meaning “bodhisattva,” that is, “one who, having reached Nirvana, enlightenment, chooses to reincarnate again in the world not for himself, but out of compassion, to help others find the way.”

The Photographer Who Didn’t Want to Take the Shot

There was a witness. A man with a camera. Malcolm Browne, a photographer for the Associated Press, who received an anonymous phone call the night before:

“Tomorrow, at noon, a monk will set himself on fire in protest.”

He arrived at the scene with a colleague, and when the flames engulfed Thích Quảng Đức, Browne took eleven photographs. The first image was published worldwide. He won the Pulitzer Prize in 1964, but throughout his life, Browne said:

“It’s the photo I wish I never took. But if I hadn’t taken it, no one would have believed it.”

The photograph shows not only a body in flames. It shows the now-famous Austin car stopped in the middle of the street with its hood open and a crowd of monks watching in silence and astonishment. It captures the weight of silence. And most importantly, it shows that sometimes, the truth needs a witness.

The Heart That Did Not Melt

I then went to the Xá Lợi temple, in the heart of Ho Chi Minh City, where a relic is kept. According to tradition, after cremation, an intact round object was found among the ashes: what many recognized as the monk’s heart. In Vietnamese Buddhism, a heart that withstands fire is a symbol of từ tâm bất diệt — the immortal heart of compassion that does not die. Today, the heart is kept in an inner room of the Xá Lợi temple, accessible to anyone who wishes to see it.

“The heart of Thích Quảng Đức… can I see it?”

A monk looked at me for a long moment, then gently shook his head.

“Not today. It is kept here, but it is not displayed every day. It is a sacred object.”

I didn’t insist. It wasn’t the right moment. But I understood. It’s an inner sign, more than an object to be shown. But the fact that it exists, that it is protected, that people speak of it softly… says everything.

What did that gesture truly mean?

Thích Quảng Đức was not a revolutionary. He did not want destruction. He wanted awakening. His act was neither suicide nor an act of hatred. It was a bài hương cúng dường — a fire offering — rarely practiced in Mahāyāna Buddhism, inspired by the Bodhisattva who sacrifices the body for the benefit of others.

He did it not to attract attention, but because attention had been denied. For months, Buddhists had been humiliated: flags banned, temples closed, arbitrary arrests. Ngô Đình Diệm’s government, Catholic, ruled a majority Buddhist nation as if it were a diocese. A letter he wrote before fulfilling his destiny ends with these words:

The Journey Continues

Practical Information for Visitors

• Từ Đàm Temple (Hue):
  Address: 29 Phan Đình Phùng, Hue
  Hours: 5:00–18:00
  Thích Quảng Đức’s car: visible in the courtyard (not always accessible)
  Dress code: cover shoulders and knees
• Quán Thế Âm Pagoda (Ho Chi Minh City):
  Address: Corner of Nguyễn Đình Chiểu and Cách Mạng Tháng Tám
  Monument: open 24/7
  Dress code: respectful; remove shoes inside
• Xá Lợi Temple (Ho Chi Minh City):
  Address: 89 Bà Huyện Thanh Quy, District 3
  The heart of Thích Quảng Đức: kept in a sacred room, not regularly on display

Photos by Guglielmo Zanchi (Pluto) 

The post The Journey and Memory of Thích Quảng Đức in Vietnam appeared first on Asian Itinerary.

A journey through the spiritual and natural heart of Bali, across seven places that tell the most authentic story of the island. Sacred temples hidden in the forest, agricultural terraces recognised by UNESCO, holy lakes and sunsets over the ocean: this is the Bali that lies beyond the crowds — the one worth seeking when you travel across Asia with intention and curiosity.

Batukaru Temple: Spirituality Deep in the Forest

Hidden on the slopes of Mount Batukaru, far from the most visited tourist routes, Batukaru Temple is one of the most significant sacred sites in Bali. The atmosphere is humid, intimate, almost suspended in time: shaded courtyards, dark moss-covered stone, natural springs flowing in silence. This is not a temple that impresses with grandeur. It impresses with authenticity. It is one of those places where Balinese spirituality manifests in a quiet, personal way, in perfect harmony with the nature that surrounds it. An essential stop for anyone who wants to discover the true religious soul of the island.

Jatiluwih Rice Terraces: UNESCO Heritage and Unfiltered Beauty

The Subak: An Ancient System That Still Feeds the Island

Le risaie terrazzate di Jatiluwih

The terraced rice fields of Jatiluwih stretch as far as the eye can see across the hills of Bali’s interior, shaping a landscape that is both orderly and breathtakingly harmonious. Behind this beauty lies the subak — the ancient communal irrigation system that has regulated the island’s agricultural life for centuries, and which earned Jatiluwih its recognition as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Walking among these terraces means entering a delicate balance between people, water and land, where daily work still follows the rhythms of nature. It is one of the most profound and authentic expressions of Balinese culture, and one of the travel images from Asia that stays with you forever.

Signora balinese lavora il Kopi Luwak

Kopi Luwak: Indonesia’s Most Famous Coffee

A stop at the Jati Wangi Coffee plantation offers a chance to discover the celebrated Kopi Luwak — coffee made from beans partially digested by the Asian palm civet. The visit takes place in a relaxed, green setting, among coffee plants and tropical spices, with guided tastings of unusual varieties including coconut and lemongrass coffee, each said to carry its own health benefits according to local tradition. A light and enjoyable experience, perfect for a fun break between one temple and the next.

Ulun Danu Beratan: The Temple That Floats on the Lake

On the shores of Lake Bratan, in Bali’s central highlands, stands Ulun Danu Temple, dedicated to Dewi Danu, goddess of water and fertility. Its pagodas appear to float on the surface of the lake, surrounded by cool mountain air and often wrapped in soft morning mist. During a visit it is common to encounter worshippers in traditional dress, with grains of rice on their foreheads as a sign of blessing. Ulun Danu is not a museum temple — it is an active place of worship, where spirituality, landscape and daily life coexist in perfect balance.

Monkey forest Ubud

The Ubud Monkey Forest: Nature, Monkeys and Hidden Temples

In the heart of Ubud, the Sacred Monkey Forest Sanctuary is a lush green area crossed by shaded paths leading through ancient trees, old temples and moss-covered statues. Hundreds of Balinese long-tailed macaques roam freely within the forest, organised into territorial groups with their own hierarchies and social dynamics.

Observing their behaviour — the interactions, the play, the occasional tensions between groups — is a direct and authentic encounter with an animal community living by its own rules. A must for families travelling to Bali or for anyone who loves nature up close.

Taman Ayun: The Quiet Elegance of Mengwi

Taman Ayun Temple, in Mengwi, is surrounded by a wide moat that symbolically separates it from the outside world. Built in the 17th century as the spiritual centre of the Mengwi dynasty, it expresses traditional Balinese architecture with elegance and restraint: layered thatched roofs, wooden structures and stone carvings in conversation with manicured gardens and towering trees. Walking through its courtyards means moving through a space designed for contemplation — a quiet testament to the culture and history of the island.

Tana Lot: Sunset Over the Island of the Gods

Tana Lot, un tempio costruito su una roccia affacciata sull’oceano

No itinerary in Bali is complete without Tana Lot. Perched on a rock surrounded by the ocean and accessible only at low tide, this temple is one of the most iconic symbols of the island. Dedicated to the spirits of the sea, it stands as one of the sacred pillars of Balinese spirituality connected to water and the protection of the island. As the sun descends over the ocean and the light shifts through shades of gold and orange, Tana Lot brings the day to a close with a simple yet powerful image: sunset over the Island of the Gods. The perfect ending to a journey through temples, nature and everyday life — and a reminder of why Bali, among all travel destinations in Asia, remains truly one of a kind.

Have you visited Bali? Share your experience in the comments or explore more itineraries at asianitinerary.com.

The post Bali in One Day: Sacred Temples, UNESCO Rice Terraces and the Monkey Forest appeared first on Asian Itinerary.

Istana Nurul Iman, the official residence of the Sultan of Brunei, located in the capital city of Bandar Seri Begawan

“Brunei makes me think of Cinderella,” I said out of the blue to the driver as he steered the car across a bridge whose name — Sultan Haji Omar Ali Saifuddien — seemed almost as long as its 30-kilometer span. He glanced at me through the rearview mirror, puzzled, waiting for an explanation. And so I did explain myself — not only to satisfy his curiosity but also to assure him I wasn’t entirely mad.

Yes, Negara Brunei Darussalam, or “the State of Brunei, Abode of Peace,” truly reminds me of the fairy-tale heroine from the Brothers Grimm. A humble figure, suddenly transformed by fortune into royalty, yet somehow retaining a quiet grace, a certain gentleness beneath gold and silk.

Travel Brunei Asia

Brunei is like Cinderella after the ball. It has everything: immense wealth drawn from oil and gas, pristine roads, palaces that shimmer over the water, and a capital city — Bandar Seri Begawan — that feels more like a well-kept secret than a display of power. And yet, despite its sudden rise, it doesn’t boast. There’s no clamor, no flashy excess. Skyscrapers are rare, shopping malls modest, luxury cars parked neatly, as if no one wants to disturb its peace.

The Omar Ali Saifuddien Mosque

Walking through the city, you feel you’ve stepped into a place that moves quietly. The Omar Ali Saifuddien Mosque, with its golden domes and lit minarets, rises majestically beside the river, yet it doesn’t dominate — it belongs. The Brunei River flows slowly, lined with stilt houses where life is lived much as it did decades ago. In Kampong Ayer, the “Water Village,” thousands live on wooden homes connected by walkways, with schools, mosques, and even floating police stations. It’s a world apart, yet central to Brunei’s identity.

Then there’s the monarchy. This isn’t a constitutional figurehead; here, Sultan Haji Hassanal Bolkiah has ruled since 1967, one of the longest-reigning monarchs in the world. Once listed among the richest men on Earth, his presence is everywhere — on currency, in schools, in official portraits — but never in a way that feels oppressive.

a walkway high in the canopy of the rainforest in Ulu Temburong National Park, Brunei’s first national park.

It’s more like the calm gaze of a father watching over a family shielded from the noise of the outside world.

In 2014, Brunei introduced Sharia law as part of its legal system, drawing international criticism. Yet, walking its streets, you don’t feel repression. You feel instead a deliberate balance — between modernity and tradition, between global openness and cultural preservation. Women wear headscarves, alcohol is banned, nightlife is nearly absent. But there’s no sense of sadness. Instead, there’s tranquility — a feeling that time here isn’t dictated by consumption, but by prayer, family, and community rhythms.

Kampong Ayer

The driver remains silent as we cross the final stretch of the bridge. We are now approaching the district of Temburong, an exclave of the sultanate enclosed within Malaysia’s borders and today connected to the rest of Brunei by the Temburong Bridge. After a long pause, he said, “I had never thought of it that way… I like it.”
“That’s the beauty of Brunei,” I reply. “It is as wealthy as a prince, yet it continues to live in simplicity. It’s like Cinderella who, after the ball, returned to her humble home; and when the prince found her again and made her a queen, I like to think she never wanted to forget who she once was.”

As the sun began to set, gilding the surface of the strait, the bridge stretched ahead like a thread between two worlds: abundance and restraint. And Brunei, balanced upon it, walks gently forward — as if knowing that true elegance isn’t in having everything, but in carrying it with grace.

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There’s a coffee you don’t expect. Not because of its color or its aroma, but for what it hides inside: an egg yolk whipped into a sweet, creamy cloud. You discover it while walking through the streets of Hanoi, in Vietnam, among the scents of a city that never sleeps. Plastic tables take over the sidewalks, stools sit low to the ground, and everywhere people sip something dark, topped with a pale yellow, almost golden foam. It doesn’t look like coffee. And yet, it is.

Café Giang, at 39 Nguyen Huu Huan Street

Cà phê trứng, Vietnam’s egg coffee, is neither a tourist gimmick nor a modern culinary experiment. Its story begins in wartime, when milk was scarce and hunger outweighed tradition. It was 1946 in Hanoi, and Nguyen Van Giang, a bartender at the Sofitel Legend Metropole — then an elegant French colonial residence — faced empty shelves. Coffee was plentiful; Vietnam, though not yet the global giant it would become, had inherited coffee cultivation from the French in the Central Highlands. But fresh milk was nowhere to be found. And without milk, there was no café au lait for European guests who demanded it every morning.

Giang glanced at the kitchen, spotted the eggs — always available, even in the hardest times — and thought: why not try? He beat an egg yolk with sugar and condensed milk, added a touch of butter, until he achieved a thick, velvety cream. He poured it over a cup of hot, bitter Robusta coffee, served in a glass. The result was astonishing: not a compromise, but a revelation. That golden foam softened the bitterness of the coffee, transforming it into something new, almost dessert-like. At first the guests were surprised, then intrigued, and finally enchanted.

Thus, in the heart of a war-torn city, one of Southeast Asia’s most iconic drinks was born. Giang left the hotel and opened Café Giang, at 39 Nguyen Huu Huan Street. It still stands today, on the second floor of a modest building, with worn walls and windows open to the city. No flashy signs are needed: just follow the aroma in the air, the sound of egg yolks being whisked by hand, and the waiters rushing up and down with steaming trays. Giang’s son, Tri Hoa Nguyen, still prepares the coffee using the original recipe, with a secret ingredient never revealed. Perhaps a touch of brandy, perhaps a special honey. Or perhaps it’s just time itself, turning necessity into legend.

I wasn’t looking for this drink. I didn’t even know it existed. After a bowl of phở, sitting on a chair far too low, I just wanted a coffee. A real coffee. For us Italians, it’s a matter of principle: coffee is not a break, it’s a ritual, a pleasure.

The author with a good cup of egg coffee

And yet, too often while traveling I’ve had to give it up. In many countries it’s too long, watered down, lukewarm. Or it’s instant — that gray broth “not even fit for dogs.” So I learned to make do, reluctantly, with whatever was available. But in Hanoi, things were different. On the menu I read simply cà phê trứng. I asked what it was, hesitated: a raw egg in coffee? It could have been a gastronomic nightmare, if I hadn’t already tasted something similar in Bologna. Then I thought: if you’ve come all this way to explore local cuisine, you can’t stop at the threshold of taste. You must cross it.

The first cup arrived hot, steaming, with that yellow cream trembling slightly. I stirred it slowly with a spoon, watching the dark coffee rise to the surface. Then I tasted. A cautious sip, and immediately I understood: it wasn’t just coffee, it wasn’t dessert, it wasn’t liquid or solid. It was a unique balance of bitter and sweet, warmth and creaminess. It recalled a liquid tiramisù, a coffee zabaglione, a crème brûlée you could drink. But most of all, it was good. Deep. Comforting.

Since then, every time I’ve returned to Hanoi, egg coffee has been a ritual I never miss. A mandatory stop was Ciao Coffee, connected to the tour operator Ciao Travel, which until my last visit stood just beyond Chuong Gate. Despite its Italian-sounding name, it was a purely Vietnamese place, where skilled hands offered true delights to my palate.

various qualities of coffee you. an find in Hanoi

Watching Ms. Nhung whisk an egg yolk, even now with the help of an electric mixer — an inevitable concession to modern times — remains a gesture of resistance against the rush. It’s a ritual, slow and meditative. And as I wait, I think about the strange destiny of food: how often what is born from scarcity becomes a symbol of abundance.

Today, the tour operator I collaborate with has moved about a kilometer away and closed its restaurant section. But Ms. Nhung is still there, and she promised me that every time I return to Hanoi, she’ll prepare her unmistakable, exquisite egg coffee.

Coffee, after all, is a story of adaptation, ingenuity, and dignity. It’s proof that when what you think is essential is missing, you can create something new, even better. It’s no coincidence that Vietnam, now one of the world’s top three producers, is home to such a unique specialty. Here, coffee is not a borrowed culture but a living part of national identity.

antichi macina caffè

Condensed milk, another symbol of this tradition, was introduced by the French during World War I to compensate for the lack of fresh milk. The Vietnamese adopted it and made it their own: today a simple cà phê sữa means black coffee, brewed with a phin filter, blended with a generous spoonful of condensed milk.

But cà phê trứng goes beyond. It’s a poetic evolution of the same principle: turning what you have into something memorable. Today, there are versions with coconut milk, cocoa, or served cold with ice. I myself tried to make it at home. I followed every step of Ms. Nhung’s ritual. Decent, yes. But it’s not the same. It lacked the trained, skilled hand. It lacked the air of Hanoi, the noise of traffic, the feeling of being in a place where time moves differently. It lacked the barista who looks at you and smiles, as if knowing you’ve just crossed an invisible border.

Today, egg coffee is no longer just Hanoi’s treasure: you’ll find it in Saigon, Hue, Hoi An. In trendy cafés it comes in elegant glasses, ready for Instagram. But the heart remains in the old quarter, where someone walks in every day, looks at the cup with suspicion, and then says: “It’s good. I don’t know what it is, but it’s good.”

vietnamese egg coffee

And that, perhaps, is the true miracle of cà phê trứng: it doesn’t win you over immediately; it challenges you. But once you try it, you realize it’s not the flavor that changes you, but the very idea of coffee. That doesn’t have to be bitter, quick, and functional. It can be soft, slow, and complex. It can be a moment you don’t fully understand, but one that feels right.

Because sometimes, the most authentic pleasure doesn’t come from what you know, but from what you don’t expect.

Photos by Guglielmo Zanchi (Pluto)

Click HERE and enjoy our video on Vietnamese egg coffee!!

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A trip to Komodo National Park begins with a swift glide across turquoise waters, leaving the coast behind as you head toward the arid silhouette of distant islands on the horizon. The speedboat is the ideal vessel to shorten the distance and quickly immerse yourself in one of Indonesia’s most unique ecosystems, a protected area designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1991. The landscape changes almost immediately: the deep blue of the water contrasts with the scorched earth tones, embarking travelers on an intense journey through scenery that seems to belong to a distant era. Here, wild nature and primordial vistas set the stage for the most anticipated encounter: with the legendary dragons, ancient guardians of this volcanic archipelago.

Padar: Conquering the Panorama

The island of Padar suddenly appears, defined by rugged, jagged hills rising boldly from the sea. Here, nature reveals itself in its most elemental form: no villages or shaded areas, only a landscape shaped by wind and sun. Padar’s uniqueness lies in its volcanic origin, which has created an incredibly rugged coastline, so much so that from above, the island looks like a giant hand of rock stretched across the ocean. Visitors aim to ascend the slopes along a stone path leading to one of Southeast Asia’s most famous viewpoints.

The climb is demanding, with steep inclines that immediately make their presence felt under the tropical sun. Yet, every turn offers new perspectives on the bays below. Once at the top, your gaze encompasses the three large inlets of Padar, each featuring sands of different colors: white, black from volcanic activity, and pink. It’s an incredible visual harmony between the roughness of the rocks and the vastness of the ocean—a symbol embodying the wild spirit of this archipelago.

Pink Beach: Shades of Coral

Pink Beach welcomes travelers with an unexpectedly delicate atmosphere, almost contrasting with the austerity of the surrounding mountains. The calm, transparent sea is contained within a bay that enhances the purity of the landscape, making it an ideal spot to observe the contrast between the crystal-clear waters and the scorched profile of the hills. This beach stands out distinctly from others, appearing as a precious detail in an environment dominated by earth and rock.

Komodo National Park tour

The charm of this place arises from a natural phenomenon related to the richness of the seabed: the fine pinkish sand, mixed with billions of tiny fragments of red coral ground down by the sea over centuries. This union becomes vivid and sparkling when the sand is wet or illuminated by the strong midday sun, creating those characteristic pink shades that make the beach unmistakable. It’s a fragile balance that tells of the park’s biodiversity, where the underwater world colors and transforms even the terrestrial surface.

Komodo and the Lords of the Island

Komodo Island presents a rugged terrain where savannahs seem frozen in a prehistoric era. This environment is home to the Komodo dragons, the largest living lizards, which have developed extraordinary senses: their forked tongue acts as a chemical receptor capable of detecting prey or carcasses from nearly ten kilometers away. Their survival strategy is relentless: while young, they are agile and spend their first two or three years exclusively in the trees. This behavior is a necessary defense against cannibalism by adults, who do not hesitate to hunt their smaller counterparts. Staying high up keeps the juveniles safe from larger males, too heavy to climb.

Once they reach about two meters in length, the dragons become too massive for arboreal life and descend to the ground, becoming the dominant predators of the territory. Their danger lies not only in their strength but also in their deadly oral biology: their mouths harbor over fifty strains of bacteria and venom glands that inject substances preventing blood clotting. Even a simple bite can be fatal; the prey, weakened, is followed patiently until it succumbs. Despite their lethal nature, these dragons often appear as almost motionless creatures, resembling mud statues embedded in the terrain. Visits are always closely supervised by expert rangers, who with simple wooden sticks know how to manage the space and ensure their observation doesn’t disturb these creatures’ natural rhythms.

Taka Makassar and the Flight of the Manta Rays

Leaving Komodo, the landscape radically changes as you approach Taka Makassar. It’s little more than a crescent-shaped patch of white sand barely rising above the sea, creating the illusion of a suspended atoll in the void. No vegetation exists here—only the whiteness of the sand lapped by waters shifting from electric turquoise to cobalt blue. This place is shaped daily by the tides, where the ocean seems to reclaim the land’s space.

Nearby, Manta Point marks a marine corridor where strong, nutrient-rich currents flow. These currents attract the majestic manta rays, which can have wingspans of several meters. Watching them glide against the current is an almost hypnotic experience: they move with regal grace, “flying” through the water with slow, powerful wingbeats. Swimming in these waters allows visitors to feel the millennia-old power of the archipelago, where the force of the tides governs the lives of these magnificent creatures.

Beyond the Horizon: The Way Back

As the speedboat heads back to the harbor, the arid silhouettes of the islands begin to shrink, transforming into dark shadows floating in the sunset’s glow. The journey ends with the memory of a raw, uncompromising nature—where time seems to have stood still to preserve a world of stark contrasts and deep silence. From Padar’s sharp ridges to the transparency of Taka Makassar, the archipelago reveals itself as a mosaic of barren lands and vibrant waters, united in a fragile balance. An awe-inspiring landscape, dominated by endless horizons and wild terrain, continues to tell, through its stark beauty and majestic silence, the ancient story of our planet.

Photos by Guglielmo Zanchi (Pluto)

Here you can watch the video on Komodo by FantasiaAsia:

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There is a city that welcomes you not with order, but with a loud embrace full of sounds, smells, and intertwined movements. Hanoi is like that: it never reveals itself in silence. The first impression is a symphony of honking motorbikes, constant chatter in narrow alleys, the smell of broth boiling on gas stoves along the sidewalks, and the thin smoke of nighttime barbecues rising among the trees. It’s not chaos; it’s life—a fast-flowing life, woven with ancient gestures, as if time here isn’t linear but circular.

Wandering Through the Old Quarter

Walking through the Old Quarter, where streets are named after the goods once sold there — Silk Street, Iron Street, Hat Street — you feel like moving inside a living map. This neighborhood, over a thousand years old, was designed as a vibrant commercial organism, a maze of narrow streets and tube-shaped houses built to maximize space and reduce street-front taxes. These are called tube houses, where the front is for work and trade, the back for living, and hidden between thin walls, there’s a courtyard letting in light and rain. Every corner tells a story: a hidden temple behind a fruit stand, an old man repairing fountain pens, a woman serving phở from a pot on the ground, with precise gestures like a ritual. The buildings are often tall and narrow, built during the French period, with rusted balconies and colorful curtains fluttering in the warm wind. They seem more like people—each with its own story, breath, and way of existence.

The Origins of Hanoi

It all began in 1010 when King Lý Thái Tổ decided to move the capital to Thăng Long, the “Flying Dragon City,” choosing a strategic location between rivers and trade routes. Since then, the city’s heart developed into two parts: the Imperial Citadel, enclosed within walls and symbolizing imperial power, and the bustling trading city, open and lively, meant for exchange. Over the centuries, artisans from nearby villages moved here, bringing crafts and traditions. Every street became a district of workshops, governed by a guild, with a temple dedicated to the guardian spirit of the trade. They were called the “36 Guilds of Arts,” though today many more exist, and the number has become more of a symbol than an exact figure.

Pluto and Alis on a traditional rikshaw

In the 17th century, Chinese merchants brought new momentum to the economy, and the neighborhood grew and adapted. Then, at the end of the 19th century, the French arrived. They changed the city’s face: widening streets, draining lakes, demolishing gates that separated districts, erasing the village-like charm that had persisted for centuries. Yet, they couldn’t break the soul of the place. Colonial facades appeared—arches, rectangular windows, pediments—but behind, in interior courtyards, life went on just as before.

Even during wartime, the Old Quarter persisted. In the 1960s, with the policy of collective housing, many homes were nationalized and divided among large families. Courtyards filled with makeshift structures, spaces grew narrower, but the community endured. After 1986, with the Đổi Mới reform, the push towards the market revived the neighborhood’s original spirit: people opened new shops, revitalized their crafts, and took control of their future. Today, amidst tall buildings and tangled wires, the neighborhood’s identity still survives: the urban fabric, hidden temples, tube houses, artisans’ streets. It’s a fragile but resilient balance.

Hoan Kiem: Lake of the Returned Sword

In the midst of all this is Hoan Kiem, the Lake of the Returned Sword. An oasis of calm, almost detached from the world. Legend tells that an emperor received a magical sword in a dream from a turtle god to free the country from Chinese invaders. After victory, while sailing on the lake, a giant golden turtle emerged from the waters and took back the sword. Since then, the lake bears that name, and the tower on an island at its center seems to guard a collective memory that needs no words. In the evening, as lights turn on and young people sit on the steps chatting, the lake reflects the city like a tired yet proud mirror.

The Temple of Literature and Millenary Culture

A short distance away, the Temple of Literature opens into a series of peaceful courtyards, like a deep breath after the bustle. Founded in 1070 and dedicated to Confucius, it housed Vietnam’s first university. Stone steles beneath trees bear the names of distinguished students from centuries past, carved carefully, as if to say knowledge deserves remembrance. Even today, students in school uniforms burn incense at altars, praying for good exams. They don’t seem like tourists—they’re part of the place, as if the past is just another room in the same building.

Ho Chi Minh’s Mausoleum 

Hanoi cultural and historical city

Further north, the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum rises with a solemn architecture inspired by Eastern European monuments. Here, “Uncle Ho,” as he is affectionately called, rests in a glass coffin, wrapped in the simplicity that defined him in life. Surrounding gardens are spacious and orderly, and just beyond is the stilt house where he lived—a humble, functional dwelling. No luxury, no exaggerated celebration. Everything speaks of sobriety, almost resistance to grandeur. Yet, his figure continues to walk the city’s streets, in history books, and in guidebooks.

Hanoi’s Flavors and Surprises

But Hanoi isn’t just history. It’s also taste, and sometimes surprise. In a corner of the Old Quarter, follow the line of people standing in front of a small table to discover a famous spot known only to those who seek. Here, the cà phê trứng — egg coffee — is born, a seemingly contradictory drink: whipped egg yolk with condensed milk placed on a strong, bitter Robusta espresso. You try it hesitantly, then understand: it’s neither sweet nor salty nor liquid nor solid. It’s a balance—a velvety cream softening the bitterness, warming without heaviness. You drink slowly, sitting on a plastic chair amid the bustling traffic. It’s a moment of peace won.

And then there’s the food. Always, everywhere. Phở, the noodle soup with clear broth and thin slices of meat, served at dawn or midnight. Bún chả, cold noodles with grilled pork and sweet-sour sauce. Bánh mì, crispy bread stuffed with pâté, vegetables, and spices, bought for a few cents and eaten while walking. In Hanoi, eating isn’t separate from life—it’s life itself, seasoned with coriander, lime, and chili.

In the evening, in a small theater with a wooden stage, you can watch a water puppet show. Wooden figures dance on a pond’s surface, moved by hidden sticks beneath the water’s surface. They tell stories of plowing, battles, deities, and talking animals. This ancient art, born in lakeside villages, feels modern and poetic. Spectators laugh, applaud, children gaze in wonder. No one considers it folklore; it’s just a well-told story.

Hanoi doesn’t try to please everyone. It’s not as elegant as Kyoto or as efficient as Singapore. It’s irregular, sometimes uncomfortable, often noisy. Yet, after a few days, it starts to feel familiar. Its beauty isn’t in order but in vitality—its ability to hold sacred and ordinary, past and present, noise and silence. It’s a city that reveals itself slowly—through a smile, a cold beer at sunset, a bite of something new that already feels like yours.

Photos by Guglielmo Zanchi (Pluto)

The post Hanoi: A City of Roaring Embrace appeared first on Asian Itinerary.

I am sure you would never imagine that Yogyakarta, which I have always considered a secondary destination in Indonesia, is in fact a city capable of offering an attentive visitor cultural and historical insights of great value. Here, culture and history are not confined within books or tourist guides but take shape in the architecture of temples declared UNESCO World Heritage Sites, such as Borobudur and Prambanan, in the sacred enclosure of the Sultanate that still governs the province today, and in popular artistic manifestations that animate the city.

Malioboro Street, l’arteria più celebre e vissuta di Yogyakarta

And it is precisely in the center of Yogyakarta that this complex and layered identity becomes immediately perceptible. Urban life flows at its own pace, made up of continuous balances between tradition and everyday life. Along Malioboro Street, the most famous and frequented artery, there are shops, stalls, carts, and small informal spaces that tell an authentic and deeply popular Yogyakarta. Not a commercial street, but a meeting and observation place, where the traveler catches fragments of real life.

Walking on Malioboro means immersing oneself in an atmosphere made of sounds, colors, and repeated gestures, where the past is not staged but simply lived. It is here that the most accessible face of the city offers itself without filters, naturally preparing for the discovery of its most symbolic places and the stories that lead from the urban heart to the Kraton and, a little further, to the great temples of the Javanese plain.

Welcome, then, to Yogyakarta, “Jogja” for friends, which I do not believe is an exaggeration to define as the soul of the island of Java.

In my opinion, it even surpasses the capital Jakarta, which, when I visited it, did not leave me particular emotions and which, among other things, will be replaced by Nusantara, the new capital under construction on Borneo Island, whose name recalls the idea of a “land among the islands.”

But the role of Yogyakarta goes beyond its cultural dimension. Thanks to the wisdom and commitment of its Sultan, the city played a fundamental role in the birth of the Indonesian Republic, to the point of being awarded, unique among the provinces of the country, the status of Sultanate.

Yogyakarta turismo culturale

The origins of this Sultanate date back to 1755, following a treaty mediated by the Dutch East India Company. Prince Mangkubumi became the first Sultan of Yogyakarta with the title of Hamengkubuwono I and founded the city together with the Kraton, destined to become its symbolic center.

In the period following World War II, while Indonesia fought for independence, Sultan Hamengkubuwono IX made a decisive choice, aligning his people and resources alongside the young Indonesian state. Yogyakarta thus became the de facto capital of the emerging republic during the most delicate years of the conflict, a role that earned it official recognition of its special status and the confirmation of the Sultan as hereditary governor.

The Sultanate of Yogyakarta still represents today a unique form of integration between traditional authority and republican administration, widely accepted at the national level and deeply felt locally as a pillar of the historical and cultural identity of the province.

Kraton

The Kraton, the royal palace of Yogyakarta, represents the symbolic and cultural heart of the city. Passing through its gates means entering a space where daily life and tradition intertwine following ancient rhythms. Guards in traditional uniforms guard courtyards and pavilions, while gamelan music and measured movements of dancers recall a still-practiced ceremonial.

Prambanan is one of the most spectacular Hindu temple complexes in Southeast Asia.

We are not talking about a simple historical site because the Kraton is a lived place, a religious and cultural center where refined arts such as Javanese classical dance, music, and court etiquette are passed down. Inside, precious manuscripts in ancient Javanese characters are preserved, testimony to a deeply rooted literary and philosophical tradition. Visiting the Kraton thus offers an essential key to understanding the identity of Yogyakarta and the journey toward the surrounding great temples.

Prambanan

Leaving Yogyakarta, the landscape opens up and the city gradually gives way to the plain. It is here that Prambanan reveals itself with its unmistakable silhouette, a set of elongated towers that create one of the most spectacular Hindu complexes in Southeast Asia. Dedicated to the Trimurti — Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva — Prambanan tells of an era in which power and sacred dimension were deeply intertwined.

Borobudur, the largest Buddhist monument in the world

The bas-reliefs decorating the temples narrate episodes from the Ramayana with a richness of details that give movement and depth to the figures, inviting the visitor to read the stone as a timeless story.

Borobudur

Continuing westward, the journey leads to Borobudur, the largest Buddhist monument in the world and one of Indonesia’s most powerful symbols. Unlike the verticality of Prambanan, Borobudur develops as an ascensional path, designed to be traversed slowly, also because the climb is tiring.

The bas-reliefs decorating its terraces tell of the life of the Buddha and his teachings, transforming the ascent into a meditative experience. Reaching the summit, silence and the vastness of the landscape offer a moment of contemplation that represents the culmination of the spiritual journey of the Yogyakarta area.

Mendut

The Mendut temple

Ideally concluding this itinerary is the Mendut temple, more intimate and less monumental, but no less significant. Its intimate atmosphere invites a silent and reflective visit, offering a more human and meditative dimension after the grandeur of the larger complexes.

Visiting Mendut concludes the journey through the sacred sites surrounding Yogyakarta, leaving the visitor with the sensation of having crossed a territory where spirituality, history, and culture follow one another naturally.

Yogyakarta and its temples thus tell a journey that goes beyond simple cultural visit. From the living heart of the Kraton to the great sacred complexes of the Javanese plain, each stage helps unveil a land where history, faith, and identity have layered over time, leaving the memory of a profound and harmonious experience.

Photos by Guglielmo Zanchi (Pluto)

Here you can watch the video about Yogyakarta by FantasiaAsia:

The post Yogyakarta: The Cultural and Spiritual Heart of Java appeared first on Asian Itinerary.

Off the southwest coast of Lombok, away from the crowds and noise of the famous northern Gili Islands, lies a corner of Indonesia that seems to have escaped the rush of mass tourism. Here, time moves at an ancient pace, dictated only by the rhythm of the tides, the whisper of the sea breeze, and the changing colors of the daylight. This is an area little known to most, yet rich in authenticity: the coast of Sekotong, a starting point for a quiet journey to three tiny islands of sand, coral, and wild vegetation — Gili Nanggu, Gili Tangkong, and Gili Kedis.

Getting to these islands isn’t your typical tourist operation. There are no fast ferries or crowded docks. Instead, departures are from small, often improvised wooden piers, aboard traditional boats called perahu, used by local fishermen. These simple, narrow wooden boats with side oars are built for stability even in choppy waters. Boarding a perahu means leaving behind, at least for a few hours, the comfort of modern infrastructure and trusting a vessel that lives in harmony with the sea. The engine, often a basic outboard motor, produces a steady hum, while the boat glides over crystal-clear water, leaving a gentle wake. It’s a sensory experience: feeling the gentle sway of the hull, smelling the salty air, watching the seabed appear and vanish beneath the keel. Navigating between these islands isn’t just a physical transfer; it’s a way to connect directly with the environment, its fragility, and its silent strength.

The first to appear on the horizon is Gili Nanggu, the largest and most developed of the three. From afar, it’s recognizable by its rounded shape and almost entirely forested surface. As the perahu approaches the shore, the transparency of the water strikes you: in some spots, it looks as if there’s no water at all, just liquid air. You don’t need to dive to enjoy the underwater spectacle; walking along the shoreline reveals colorful fish swimming among vibrant, well-preserved coral formations. The beach is broad, with fine white sand shaded by casuarina trees and some palms. The atmosphere is almost unreal in its calm. There are no shops, no paved roads, no loudspeakers or background music. Only the rustling of leaves in the wind, the occasional call of a seabird, and the gentle lapping of waves on the shore.

Gili Nanggu also offers rustic-style bungalows managed by local families, but even those who don’t stay overnight can enjoy this island as if it were an open-air natural park. It’s an ideal place for those seeking an immersive experience in nature, without sacrificing some comfort or compromising authenticity. Swimming here is a rare pleasure: the water is warm, clear, and shallow, and the coral reef is reachable on foot in just a few minutes. Turtles often swim peacefully among the corals, testifying to the health of the ecosystem.

Not far away, almost appearing in a tiptoe, is Gili Tangkong. If Nanggu is welcoming and generous, Tangkong is reserved and almost shy. It’s smaller, wilder, and often uninhabited for most of the day. Its dense vegetation almost reaches the beach, creating deep shaded spots perfect for solitude. There are no tourist facilities or marked trails. Walking around its perimeter often means being the only person present for hours. The footprints left in the sand are the first of the day—and perhaps the last.

Lombok secret islands Nanggu Tangkong Kedis

This island invites contemplation more than underwater exploration. It’s the perfect place for those who want to disconnect completely and seek an intimate connection with nature, without intermediaries. The seabed here is just as transparent but feels more intimate and secluded. The sea seems to embrace the island in a protective hug, making it an ideal refuge for those looking to find their inner rhythm. Unlike busier islands, there’s no pressure to “see” or “do.” You simply need to be present, and the place reveals itself naturally.

Finally, just a few hundred meters away, stands Gili Kedis — a true mirage of sand. Calling it an island is almost an understatement; it’s better described as a tiny white sandbank, just a bit larger than a tennis court, surrounded by surreal turquoise waters. There are no real trees—only a few low shrubs and smooth rocks shaped by the waves. The landscape is minimalist, essential, almost abstract. Yet, perhaps because of this, Gili Kedis exerts a magnetic charm. It’s the archetype of a deserted island, a place many dream of but few actually encounter.

Its small size allows you to walk around it in just a few steps, but that very smallness makes it so powerful. Standing in the center of Gili Kedis, your gaze takes in the entire horizon in a single turn. There are no distractions, no extraneous elements—only sea, sky, and sand. It’s easy to understand why many visitors describe it as an almost meditative experience. Depending on the tides, Gili Kedis appears more or less expansive: sometimes seeming to emerge from nothing, other times blending seamlessly with the level of the sea. This fragility is part of its character, a silent reminder of the delicate balance of nature.

Together, these three islands tell a different story of Indonesia — one far from the well-trodden routes and commercialized experiences. They are not places to “consume” quickly, to photograph and leave behind. They are spaces to listen to, to respect, to live slowly. Each has a distinct character: Nanggu, generous and welcoming; Tangkong, intimate and wild; Kedis, essential and almost metaphysical. Yet, they share a common atmosphere: that of a world still in balance, where nature isn’t just a backdrop but the protagonist.

Traveling between them on a perahu becomes a rite of passage. Each move is a moment of reflection, an opportunity to observe the sea from a different perspective, to notice how the shades of water change with depth, to see local fishermen at work with traditional methods. There’s no rush, no strict schedule. Time here is measured in breaths, not hours.

Visiting the Gili Islands of southwest Lombok isn’t just an excursion but an invitation to rediscover the value of silence, natural light, and simplicity. In an age where everything seems to accelerate, these small islands offer a rare space: the pause, contemplation, and authentic contact with the environment. Perhaps because of this, they leave a much deeper impression than many other places.

Photos by Guglielmo Zanchi (Pluto)

The post Southern Gili Islands: Hidden Paradises Beyond the Tourist Trail appeared first on Asian Itinerary.

Nestled amidst the soft rolling hills and coffee plantations of central Java, the MesaStila Resort and Spa offers a sanctuary for those seeking an elegant refuge, far from the frantic pace of everyday life. At the same time, it provides opportunities for immersion in nature and cultural exploration. Crossing the gates of the property, the atmosphere immediately transforms: the scent of well-tended gardens blends with the songs of birds and the gentle murmur of fountains hidden among the greenery, evoking a sense of peace and harmony from the very first moment.

The resort is a perfect blend of Javanese colonial design and contemporary comfort, capable of transporting guests into an experience that is cultural, aesthetic, and sensory all at once. Elegant villas and suites, scattered across 22 lush hectares, are built from restored traditional Javanese wooden houses, each featuring handcrafted furnishings and spaces designed to fuse tradition with luxury. From private terraces, guests enjoy panoramic views of rice fields, forests, and, on clear days, the majestic sight of nearby active volcanoes that surround the central region of Java—creating a dynamic and unforgettable horizon.

A notable element of historical charm is the reception area, which has been converted from an old colonial railway station and carefully restored within the property. It is a tangible reminder of the area’s history and the legacy of the coffee plantations that once thrived in these lands.

Spaces dedicated to wellness deserve special mention. The resort’s spa is not your usual spa: it is an authentic Turkish-style hammam, the first and one of the few of its kind in Southeast Asia. In an environment that blends traditional architectural elements with Ottoman cultural design, guests can indulge in vapor rituals, massages, scrubs, and treatments that combine ancient Middle Eastern techniques with healing practices from the Indonesian archipelago. Here, the aromatic warmth of steam, enveloping temperatures, and sequences of treatments are designed to deeply regenerate body and mind.

La piscina a sfioro, circondata da piante tropicali e con vista sulle montagne, diventa un luogo ideale per rilassarsi al tramonto, mentre il panorama che si apre sulle colline circostanti offre uno spettacolo silenzioso e ipnotico, perfetto per chi cerca tranquillità e contemplazione.

The infinity pool, surrounded by tropical plants and offering views of the mountains, becomes an ideal place to relax at sunset. Meanwhile, the landscape unfolding over the surrounding hills provides a silent, hypnotic spectacle—perfect for those seeking tranquility and contemplation.

The culinary offerings reflect the resort’s philosophy: a harmonious blend of fresh local ingredients and international culinary creativity. The main restaurants are Java Red, which offers international dishes and local specialties inspired by Javanese tradition, and Java Green, which provides lighter, healthier cuisine with Mediterranean influences and recipes based on organic products cultivated on-site or in nearby villages. Alongside these, the Plantation Lounge, housed in a restored colonial warehouse, is the perfect spot for aperitifs, afternoon teas, or simply relaxing moments with a view of nature.

The atmosphere at MesaStila is not only physical; it is that of a place that invites slowing down, observing, and living at a gentle pace. The resort is ideal for couples seeking romance, travelers passionate about Javanese art and culture, and those wishing to reconnect deeply with nature without sacrificing refined comfort. Every experience contributes to a memorable and immersive stay.

Among the daily cultural and creative activities offered, guests can participate in batik workshops, the traditional art of dyeing fabrics with wax and pigments; gamelan music classes; lessons in traditional Javanese dance; and even Pencak Silat sessions, the indigenous martial art. There are also activities such as creating ornaments with janur leaves, guided visits to coffee plantations with explanations of the cultivation and processing process, and yoga or Qi Gong sessions immersed in nature.

MesaStila Resort and Spa is more than just a place to stay: it is a sensory journey, a balance between discreet luxury and cultural authenticity—a perfect starting point for exploring the wonders of central Java, lulled by silence, beauty, and the attention to detail that makes every moment unique and unforgettable.

Here you can watch FantasiaAsia video on MesaStila Resort and Spa:

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A flight of about forty minutes on a small Air Fast plane from Semarang (Java – Indonesia) to Karimunjawa, followed by an hour of boat ride, and here we are, Kura Kura. Reaching this island is not easy at all, as the journey is quite complex. But as they say, paradise is never easy to reach.

And truly, it is paradise: as soon as you disembark on the island, beyond the necessary facilities that will welcome you, an Eden unfolds before your eyes. Instinctively, you hope not to meet Eve and the snake — because, for the four days planned, there’s only one thing you want: never to lose this little corner of the world you’ve just discovered because of a forbidden apple.

Kura Kura, with its palm trees, its crystalline sea, and the calm that envelops everything, is a hidden tropical jewel in the heart of the Java Sea, located between the big islands of Java and Borneo. A refuge suspended between sky, water, and tranquility, where time still flows at a human pace — the natural rhythm that modern life’s frenzy has forced us to forget.

Here, supreme nature still reigns. You notice it in the rebellious growth of the vegetation, which, despite the efforts of gardeners, continues to spread in total chaos; in the color and transparency of the surrounding sea; and in the coral reef that envelops the island, visible in the distance, hinting at the vibrant life it hosts.

The island hosts a single, high-level resort that combines luxury and sustainability. Its buildings blend discreetly into the landscape, giving the sensation of living a rare privilege: an authentic and respectful experience where comfort merges with the untouched peace of nature.

You move along shaded paths, between coconut palms silhouetted against the sky and tropical plants so imposing compared to our own that you feel small — almost transported to a primordial world where nature dominates unchallenged and you become a guest enchanted by its power.

You can stroll alongside tiny secluded beaches that give the illusion of having a private cove for each cottage or villa, and at every step, the boundary between you and the island seems to thin, until you feel like part of the scenery itself. Perhaps that’s truly how we were in a remote time: immersed in a world where the sound of the sea and the slow rhythm of the forest accompanied us without asking for anything in return — a different realm, like this, that seems to exist outside of time.

There’s no rush at Kura Kura, and honestly, what rush could there be in such a place? Here you can reclaim the spaces that society has denied you, and reconnect with the natural rhythms that belong to you but that you have forgotten.

Suddenly, you realize that the day can pass simply by listening to the wind rustling through the vegetation or watching the perpetual motion of the waves gently crashing onto the shore. It’s surprising to realize that even just walking through the greenery or jumping into the sea feels almost superfluous — an intrusion that risks disturbing the poetry of the place.

But at Kura Kura, you can go further, and this further is called Krakal: an even smaller, wilder island, about forty minutes away by speedboat, with the last stretch traveled in a rowboat due to the shallow waters.

Landing on Krakal leaves you breathless. The island reveals itself at its best: sand so white it’s almost blinding, and a sea so transparent it seems like an irresistible invitation to dive into its warm, welcoming waters.

Those heading to Krakal do so to be alone, with few possessions and without noise. Many guests of Kura Kura spend one or more days here to live a Robinson Crusoe-like experience: no electricity, days dictated by dawn and dusk, and three simple wooden huts that only accommodate already-formed groups. If the island is booked for two people, for example, they will be the only people in Krakal during those days.

Most importantly, no internet: during the time you choose to stay, there’s no room for social media or WhatsApp. The only comforts are a bed with a mosquito net, a small library, and an “antique” phone to contact Kura Kura in case of emergency.

“And what about food?” you might ask. Simple: when you arrive on the island for your “luxury castaway” experience, you are provided with enough food supplies for the days you will spend there. Naturally, nothing prevents you from fishing and cooking your own fish — I saw an artisanal grill and some wood waiting to be collected, but, small detail, I didn’t notice any fishing rods around.

The rest of the time is spent walking, swimming, sunbathing, reading a few pages of a book, perhaps moments of reflection that will inevitably lead you to rediscover yourself… and then, nothing. Krakal has nothing to do. And that’s precisely why it’s worth it.

Returning to Kura Kura after a few days in Krakal feels like coming back from Lesotho to New York: the sensation of a castaway returning to “civilized” life. You see the staff, the few resort guests, you return to “normal” meals, but inside, you feel that you’ve experienced something extraordinary.

You go back to boat trips, snorkeling, and — if you’re a diver — to exploring the underwater world, hoping to spot a turtle among the colorful corals or perhaps something even more remarkable.

Meanwhile, the days pass, and your stay at Kura Kura comes to an end. As you sail once again across the Java Sea or float in the air on the Air Fast plane heading back, you carry with you the awareness of having lived a truly unique experience. A feeling very similar to when an intense, beautiful dream is abruptly interrupted by the morning alarm clock — the memory of it will stay with you all day, leaving a pleasant, profound sense of serenity inside.

That’s it: Kura Kura, like those dreams that fade at dawn, stays inside you and lets you feel the emotion of the journey — even after it’s over.

Photos by Guglielmo Zanchi (Pluto)

Here you can watch FantasiaAsia video:

The post Kura Kura: Suspended Between Sea and Silence appeared first on Asian Itinerary.

There is a way of knowing Vietnam that doesn’t come from history books or travel guides. It comes from standing at the edge of Hoan Kiem Lake in Hanoi, watching the morning mist rise like breath from the water, and feeling that something ancient is still awake beneath the surface. This is a country where myths are not stories of the past, but living threads woven into the present — carried in temple names, whispered in alleyways, reflected in the shape of mountains and the flow of rivers.

Le Loi, the sword and the turtle

The most famous legend begins with a king, Le Loi, who rose as a peasant to lead a rebellion against Chinese occupation in the 15th century. According to the tale, he was given a magical sword by a golden turtle god, who emerged from these very waters. The blade, discovered by a fisherman named Le Than after it appeared in his net three times, bore the inscription “Thuan Thien” — “As Heaven Wills.” With this weapon, Le Loi defeated his enemies and brought peace to the land. Ten years later, as he sailed across the lake once more, the same divine turtle surfaced and reclaimed the sword. From that day on, the lake became known as Hoan Kiem, “Lake of the Returned Sword,” and the island temple Ngoc Son stands as a quiet witness to that moment between mortal and divine.

But the story doesn’t end there. It echoes in the founding of Hanoi itself. Before it bore that name, the city was called Thang Long — “Ascending Dragon” — a title born from another vision. King Ly Thai To, before choosing this place as his capital, saw a dragon soar into the sky from the banks of the Red River. He took it as a sign from the heavens. And so, on this sacred ground, he built a new beginning for the nation. Even today, the dragon remains a symbol of protection, of destiny, of a people rising through hardship.

Trân Vũ, the God of the North, while defeating the snake-chicken demon by luring it into a swamp.

Yet the dragon does not rule alone. In Vietnamese cosmology, balance is everything. So while the dragon belongs to the sea, the mountain is home to the fairy. And from their union comes one of the most powerful origin myths of the Vietnamese people: the legend of the Dragon Lord and the Fairy Lady (Long Quân và Âu Cơ). She was a celestial being from the highlands; he, a deity of the deep waters. When they fell in love, she gave birth to a hundred eggs, each hatching a son. But their worlds could not remain united. So the family parted: fifty sons followed their mother into the mountains, becoming the ancestors of farmers and warriors. The other fifty went with their father into the sea, becoming fishermen and seafarers. Since then, it is said that every Vietnamese carries both bloodlines — the spirit of the dragon and the soul of the fairy. This duality explains their resilience, their connection to both earth and ocean, their ability to endure storms, whether natural or human-made.

These myths live in places. In the Old Quarter of Hanoi, the Bach Ma Temple guards a story of divine guidance. When King Ly Cong Uan decided to move the capital to Thang Long, his builders were plagued by collapsing walls and failed foundations. In a dream, a white horse appeared, galloping through the city, marking the sacred perimeter where construction could succeed. Where the horse stopped, the temple was built — Bach Ma, the White Horse — and its spirit is believed to still protect the city from harm.

King Lý Thái Tổ and the dragon

Nearby, at Quan Thanh Temple, another battle between order and chaos is remembered. Here, Tran Vu, the God of the North, fought a monstrous serpent-cock demon that terrorized the land. Using wisdom over force, Tran Vu lured the creature into a swamp and drowned it. His bronze statue, centuries old, stands with sword raised, the serpent beneath his feet — a guardian against darkness. Devotees still come to pray for protection, especially before long journeys or difficult decisions.

Even West Lake (Hồ Tây) holds its own tale. Once haunted by a fearsome demon, it was only when a brave warrior, Trinh Cong Son, confronted and defeated the beast that peace returned. The demon, in its final moments, transformed into a small turtle and vanished into the depths. Locals say its spirit remains, watching over the lake, reminding all that even in beauty, mystery persists.

And yet, not all legends are gentle. Outside Hanoi, near Hue, lies the abandoned Thuy Tien Park, once meant as a tourist attraction, now a crumbling relic half-swallowed by jungle. A local myth claims the park was cursed — that workers died during construction, that strange lights flicker at night, and that those who enter after dark feel an unseen presence. Whether true or not, the story has taken root, turning a failed project into a modern ghost tale. Nature reclaims what ambition abandons, and in the silence of its broken dragon-shaped pavilion, one senses how easily wonder turns to unease.

Trinh Cong Son confronts the demon, who then transforms into a small turtle.

Walking through Hanoi, you realize that Vietnam does not separate myth from reality. Temples sit beside noodle stalls, incense burns next to motorbikes, and dragons are carved into the rooftops of modern buildings. These stories are not entertainment. They are maps — of identity, of survival, of a culture that has lived through invasion, war, and change, yet never stopped telling itself who it is.

One evening, sipping cà phê trứng — egg coffee — at a plastic table by the lake, I thought about how much this drink resembles the myths themselves. On paper, it makes no sense: a yolk whipped with sugar and condensed milk, floating over bitter Robusta brew. Yet together, they create harmony. Born from scarcity, refined into art. Like the turtle returning the sword, like the dragon taking flight — it is proof that from necessity, beauty can emerge.

In Vietnam, the past doesn’t stay buried. It swims just below the surface, waiting to be seen.

The post Legends of Vietnam: Myth in Water and Wind appeared first on Asian Itinerary.

Brunei is not a country that reveals itself at once. You understand this as you cross the long Sultan Haji Omar Ali Saifuddien Bridge — a ribbon of asphalt suspended between mangroves and sky — linking the nation’s main territory to the Temburong enclave, isolated within Malaysian land.
It’s an hour’s ride in a silent, almost ritual minivan. Outside the window, the jungle drifts by like a dense, impenetrable wall. Inside, Margelyn — known as Margy — speaks softly, her Filipino accent and gentle smile radiating the calm of someone at peace with herself. She knows the road well. Next to her, the driver steers carefully. They seem like family — and perhaps they are. For years, they’ve been guiding small groups of visitors into the heart of Ulu Temburong National Park, one of Southeast Asia’s most pristine corners.

Ulu Temburong is often called the green lung of Borneo. It covers about 40 percent of the Temburong area and has been protected since the 1990s. The Bruneian government has preserved it with remarkable discipline: no paved roads, no industrial development, no extraction. Only scientific research, controlled tourism, and respect.
Over 150 species of mammals, 300 species of birds, and thousands of plants — some still unclassified — live here. But you don’t need to know all that to feel small. You only need to step into the rainforest.

This commitment to preservation is not just national but part of a wider regional effort. In 2007, Brunei, Malaysia, and Indonesia signed a historic agreement known as the Heart of Borneo initiative, also supported by organizations such as WWF. Its goal is to protect one of the largest remaining tropical rainforests on Earth — more than 220,000 square kilometers — through cross-border cooperation in protected area management, combating illegal logging, and fostering sustainable practices among local communities.
Ulu Temburong is a cornerstone of this project: a tangible example of how a small nation can play a major role in safeguarding the planet’s natural heritage. Here, the jungle is not just a place to visit, but a living system — one that breathes thanks to a deliberate political choice: to place nature at the center, not at the margins.

Our starting point is a small jetty on the Tutong River. A wooden boat with an outboard engine awaits us. Onboard is Mira, barely nineteen, a local guide with a light step and steady gaze, her patience glowing in her calm demeanor. It’s clear this is not her first time leading tourists. The ease with which she moves, her spontaneous smile, and her graceful gestures all reveal how much she loves her work. Her enthusiasm has the freshness of youth but the confidence of someone who already knows exactly what to do.

The boat takes us to a base camp, a simple structure with open-air tables and a covered kitchen. This is Sumbiling Eco Village, a small settlement run in harmony with the forest, where thatched and wooden huts blend seamlessly into the landscape. It’s not a resort — more a functional resting place designed to welcome visitors respectfully within the natural environment.
Meals are served outdoors, sitting on wooden benches while the sound of the river hums in the background. The atmosphere is sober, authentic, and stripped of excess — a return to essentials, where every detail invites you to live in tune with nature.

We eat something quick, without asking much. The important thing is to continue. Soon we set off again, gliding upriver through a narrower stretch, between protruding stones and small rapids that our boatman navigates with skill.
The boat slows and slides toward the riverbank. It touches the muddy ground, and we prepare to disembark, one at a time, with that subtle hesitation born of unsteady footing. With the river behind us and the forest ahead, we face an uneven stone staircase — an entrance of sorts, inviting us to begin our trek.

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The first obstacle is a suspension bridge, made of wooden planks and ropes. It sways slightly — a challenge for anyone afraid of heights, like me. But we cross it slowly, one step at a time. On the other side, the forest reclaims its dominion. The trees soar — some over sixty meters high. Vines hang like curtains, broad leaves cast shade even at noon. The air is humid and dense, but pure. There is no scent of decay — only wet earth, resin, life.

Mira tells us the names of the plants: dahan, used for building canoes; nipah, the palm with broad leaves used for roofing; rattan, a strong vine prized for handicrafts. She speaks of animals — the colugo, a flying mammal akin to a bat; the Bornean red-headed parrot; the gibbon, whose cries echo at dawn. But today we see none.
The jungle knows how to keep its secrets.

I decide to stop at a wooden shelter — a rest spot with two stone benches, where peace is broken only by the hum of insects and a faint whisper of wind in the leaves. Alice and Mira continue ahead until they reach a sturdy metal tower, climbing up to the canopy walkway — a bridge suspended thirty meters above the ground, threading between treetops. Later, they’ll tell me that from up there, the forest looks like an endless green sea.
I remain below, content to listen to the forest’s music, to breathe in that scent of damp leaves, and to feel — thanks to my fear of heights — part of something ancient.

On the way back, the boat stops by a muddy bank along the Tutong River, where a small stream winds its way into the forest. We wade in with our feet submerged, brushing past roots, stepping over stones, and feeling the wide leaves graze our shoulders. The air cools. The main river’s murmur fades, replaced by the gurgle of water running between rocks.
After a few minutes, we reach a small waterfall, hidden among the dense vegetation. As it falls, it forms a circular pool surrounded by smooth stones and moss — an intimate, almost secret place.
This is what they call the jungle spa: tiny fish, drawn to the dead cells of our skin, swim toward our feet immersed in the cool water. The tickling is intense — almost unbearable — but it makes us laugh. It’s a light, playful moment that might seem at odds with the forest’s solemnity. Yet it belongs to the same balance — nature that nourishes, heals, and connects.

We return to base camp, sip a coffee, and board the boat back to our starting point. Margy is waiting with the minivan. No one speaks much. We’re tired, but satisfied. We’ve walked little more than three hours — but crossed worlds.
Ulu Temburong is not an extreme adventure. It’s an immersion — a place where time slows down, where the noise of the world fades, and where you can feel the heartbeat of the earth beneath the trees. It doesn’t need to shout its beauty. It simply exists. And that, in an age of excess, is already a miracle.

As the Sultan Haji Omar Ali Saifuddien Bridge flashes beneath us once more — this time in reverse — the driver, perhaps to break the quiet of the journey, turns to me and asks,
“Mr. Zanchi, what do you think of Brunei?”
“Brunei reminds me of Cinderella,” I reply…
But that is a story for another chapter.

Photos by Guglielmo Zanchi (Pluto)

For more eco-travel inspiration in Brunei, visit https://www.bruneitourism.com/ 

Watch FantasiaAsia video here: https://youtu.be/VVQYIPWxky4?si=Zu696BGGZhvztIEP

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For travelers craving a peaceful escape away from crowded beaches and busy tourist spots, Koh Libong in southern Thailand offers a truly authentic and serene experience. Nestled among the islands of the Andaman Sea, south of Krabi, this quiet island combines lush rubber plantations, friendly local communities, and a rare chance to see dugongs in their natural habitat.

Koh Libong Thailand

My recent visit to Koh Libong was driven by curiosity and the desire to discover lesser-known Thai islands that preserve their natural charm. What I found exceeded expectations—a place where slow-paced island life, lush greenery, and the gentle presence of marine mammals create a perfect harmony.

How to Reach Koh Libong

Koh Libong is the largest island in Trang Province and is easily accessible from the mainland. To reach the island, I drove to Hat Yao, a long beach area, where I boarded a traditional long-tail boat that whisked me across a canal to the island’s pier in about 20 minutes. The boat ride alone was a scenic highlight, offering glimpses of the surrounding mangroves and quiet waters.

Fish put to dry in the sun

The island can also be reached by sea from nearby destinations like Koh Lipe and Koh Mook, with daily speedboat services available from various providers. For those traveling from Phuket, connecting via Koh Lipe or Koh Mook makes the journey manageable and enjoyable.

Exploring Koh Libong: First Impressions and Local Life

Once on the island, we were greeted by a friendly tuk-tuk driver who took us to our accommodation—the Andalay Beach Resort—about 8 kilometers from the pier. Our driver, a young woman named Cartoon, impressed us with her hospitality and clear communication, despite her limited English. She explained that Koh Libong has a predominantly Muslim population, with a small Buddhist minority, mainly immigrants for work and family reasons.

Local women from Koh Libong Thailand

Interestingly, the economy here is mainly driven by rubber cultivation—not fishing, as many might assume for an island. The rubber trees stretch in endless groves, their sap tapped daily and collected into coconut shells. Along the way, we saw goats, roosters, hens, and even a monitor lizard crossing the road—living proof of the island’s relaxed, rural vibe.

The local community is friendly and welcoming, with signs of tourism slowly emerging—small cafes, homestays, and eco-lodges are sprouting amidst the greenery. Despite the modest development, the island retains its authentic charm.

Staying at Andalay Beach Resort

Our accommodation, Andalay Beach Resort, offers a perfect blend of comfort and immersion in nature. The resort, recently reopened after a two-year closure, features wooden bungalows and spacious rooms that blend seamlessly into the natural landscape. The furniture is simple yet tasteful, and the atmosphere is peaceful.

Dining at the on-site restaurant was a delightful experience—fresh seafood, local flavors, and a front-row seat to the sea. The staff, mostly locals, were professional and friendly, speaking good English, which made our stay even more enjoyable.

The resort’s location right on the beach provides direct access to a quiet, sandy shoreline—ideal for relaxing walks and soaking in the sunset.

Nature and Wildlife: The Search for Dugongs

One of the main reasons for visiting Koh Libong was the hope of spotting dugongs—gentle marine mammals that feed on seagrass beds in the area. We took early morning boat trips to the nearby seagrass meadows, hoping to catch a glimpse of these elusive creatures.

While we didn’t see any during our trip, the experience of being on the water in this pristine environment was rewarding in itself. The island’s commitment to sustainable tourism and conservation efforts makes it a promising place for wildlife enthusiasts and eco-travelers.

Koh Libong’s environment remains relatively untouched, and locals take pride in preserving their natural surroundings. It’s a destination that encourages responsible tourism—an ideal choice for travelers seeking authentic eco-friendly escapes.

Tips for Visiting Koh Libong

• Timing: The best time to visit is between November and April, during the dry season, when marine activities are more enjoyable.
• Respect the Environment: Support local conservation efforts, especially if you’re interested in seeing dugongs or exploring marine life.
• Local Etiquette: With a predominantly Muslim community, dress modestly and be respectful of local customs.
• Travel Light: The island’s infrastructure is simple; pack essentials, sun protection, and some cash, as ATMs are limited.
• Explore Nearby Islands: Consider day trips to Koh Mook or Koh Lipe for a broader experience of the region’s natural beauty.

Final Thoughts: Why Koh Libong Should Be on Your Thailand Travel List

Koh Libong is a rare find—a peaceful island that offers authentic local life, natural beauty, and a genuine connection with Thailand’s marine environment. It’s an ideal destination for eco-conscious travelers, wildlife enthusiasts, or anyone looking to unwind amidst lush greenery and calm waters.

This unspoiled corner of Thailand is proof that some of the best experiences come from venturing off the beaten path. Whether you’re seeking relaxation, adventure, or a chance to see dugongs in the wild, Koh Libong promises a unique and meaningful escape.

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Among the pearls of the Andaman, roses of the north, diamonds here, sapphires there, and while we’re at it, let’s also add a few Purple Roses of Cairo—these are all titles that have been attributed, perhaps rightly so, to the main tourist destinations around the world. Yet, there is one that lacks any redundant nickname but perhaps deserves it more than many others. Yes, because in the end, Laos appears as a hidden gem whose sparkle, seemingly not very vivid, cannot help but enchant all those travelers who, with an innate instinct for thievery, manage to catch its glimmer and seize the many moments of beauty that the country has to offer. A reflection that seems to ignite thanks to its enchanting nature, which frames its cultural richness, at the heart of which lie ethnic roots that have permeated its society, giving rise to a woven tapestry of customs and traditions.

It is like a crown whose main jewel is represented by the Lao people, surrounded by many small equally precious gems that are nothing more than the numerous ethnicities that make up the population.

Behind the scenes, almost dispersed, in rural villages and remote communities—whether they are nestled along more or less rugged mountain roads, leaving little room for a normal life, or whether they are villages that develop along waterways, first and foremost the Mekong, where access to transportation and other “amenities” is far greater—behind the scenes of the majestic hills covered in dense vegetation and the banks of rivers from every region, communities grow, mostly agrarian, whose roots run deep into the culture of the land, hiding unique stories that are just waiting to be whispered into the ears of those who wish to listen.
These are the stories of diverse ethnicities, which, when read together, contribute to weaving that intricate and vibrant fabric that is Laos.

Laos is home to over 80 ethnic groups, each with its own history, language, and beliefs. Ethnic roots that, when combined, offer a testament to the history of this country, made up of migrations mostly influenced by historical, political, and economic factors, as well as cultural exchanges and external influences that have in some way shaped its history. Cultural intertwining can be seen in almost every aspect of daily life, which does not remain isolated but mixes together, creating a vibrant and multifaceted cultural and human landscape where traditions, practices, and customs blend and influence each other.

In the remote mountainous regions and river valleys, communities continue to preserve their millennia-old traditions and live in harmony with the surrounding nature. The stories of the different communities transport us back in time, revealing the importance of ties to the land, respect for ancestors, and love for simple living.
The ethnic groups of Laos, such as the Hmong, Khamu, Tai, and many others, have traversed centuries of history and maintained their unique identities despite social changes and external influences. They are vibrant communities with traditions passed down orally. Each community has its own voices, manifested through songs, dances, ceremonies, and stories handed down from generation to generation. Voices of diversity that resonate in the rhythms of drums, the melodies of flutes, and the harmonious intertwining of incomprehensible languages and dialects, sometimes even for the Lao themselves. It is through these voices that we can understand the depth of wisdom and experience that the different communities have to offer, and it is in this ethnic mosaic that the Hmong population stands out, having a long history that has been discussed in more recent times, but also possessing a culture, distinctive customs, and traditional practices that continue to fascinate and attract the attention of those who immerse themselves in their reality.

The Hmong are an ethnic group originating from the mountainous regions of southern China, particularly the provinces of Guizhou, Yunnan, and Sichuan. Over the centuries, the Hmong have migrated towards Vietnam, Thailand, and, of course, Laos, where they represent one of the largest ethnic minorities in the country, with an estimated population of over 450,000 people.
Their migration to Laos dates back to around the 19th century, when the Qing dynasty ruled China and was reportedly responsible for persecutions against the Hmong, causing the political tensions that led to their movement towards the mountainous regions of northern and central Laos.

Traditionally, the Hmong people are farmers dedicated to cultivating crops such as rice, corn, and vegetables, which they grow, not without effort, in the mountainous regions of Southeast Asia where they live.

An elderly Hmong woman

They also have a history of cultivating opium poppies, used to produce heroin and other illegal drugs, which was encouraged by the CIA during the so-called “dirty war,” when the American agency unsuccessfully exploited the Hmong people to fight against the communist forces of the Pathet Lao. The Hmong were trained and equipped by the United States and provided with air support to carry out their operations against the forces opposing the government in power, supported by the Americans, becoming involved in intelligence gathering, counter-insurgency operations, and rescue missions for downed American pilots, in addition to actions aimed at limiting the use of the Ho Chi Minh trail by Vietnamese forces. A role fraught with danger and significant consequences for the Hmong minority, which, in addition to suffering heavy losses, is estimated to have seen up to 30,000 Hmong fighters and civilians lose their lives during the conflict, not to mention the wounded or displaced, who faced harsh persecution and repression from the Laotian government after the war.

New political tensions in their land, therefore, and a new diaspora that scattered them among refugee camps in neighboring Thailand and asylum in France and the United States of America, which, at least this time, did not forget those who had helped them at such a high price.

In the years immediately following the war, the Hmong who remained in Laos faced significant discrimination, including limited access to education and healthcare, a kind of retribution for their position taken during the war, to which they responded with new episodes of violence and terrorist attacks.

Such as in 2007, a few months before my first visit to Laos, when rebel groups based in the jungles of northern Laos carried out several attacks against government targets, including military outposts and police stations, but also targeted tourists visiting that region. One particular incident was recounted to me during the bus ride from Vientiane to Luang Prabang, when a young Lao, sitting not far from me, attempted to awkwardly hide an AK-47 beneath a worn jacket, awakening, needless to say, my curiosity. When I asked, I was told it was a form of protection for travelers after a group of Hmong rebels had attacked a tourist bus, killing a Chinese citizen and injuring several others.

The Laotian government responded to the rebels’ hostilities with a crackdown that lasted several years, causing loss of life and further suffering to the population until it sought to establish lasting peace with the Hmong people by beginning to address some of the causes that fueled the rebellion.

One of the fundamental steps taken by the Laotian government was the establishment of a program to resettle and integrate Hmong refugees who had fled to Thailand during the conflict. Thanks to this program, tens of thousands of refugees were resettled in Laos and provided with housing, education, and other forms of assistance.
Additionally, the Laotian government has undertaken actions to improve the economic and social conditions of the Hmong people, seeking to promote their identity and protect their cultural heritage. For example, the government has supported the development of Hmong language and culture programs, provided funding for infrastructure projects in villages, and promoted the participation of members of that ethnicity in local government decisions.

Significant efforts have also been made to encourage the Hmong to abandon opium production in the region by providing alternative livelihoods for farmers.

In addition to agriculture, the Hmong are also traditionally known for their skills in weaving and embroidery. Hmong women have a long tradition of producing intricate textiles and embroideries using techniques passed down from generation to generation, and there has been no Hmong village we visited where we did not find women bent over looms or engaged in embroidery, surrounded by more or less primitive tools and threads or “beads” of all colors.
Yes, the Hmong women… we met some who appeared disheveled, in tattered clothes, but who behind a neglect born from a life of hard work and pregnancies hide a beauty that is unexpected. A simple, almost natural beauty, and then they have that smile that seems to be half of Asia’s secret weapon.
Not all have been able to choose their husbands, nor have all been chosen by their families, because among the Hmong there is also a practice that we could define as “bride kidnapping.”
I had already heard about it in the mountainous tribal regions of Vietnam in the far north, where it was common to abduct a woman solely for the purpose of marrying her.

In her home, in a village we visited, a 23-year-old girl, currently engaged in weaving with a newborn sleeping on a hammock shielded from the world’s eyes by the dim light, calmly told us how, following her “kidnapping” by the man who would become her husband, she had been living this new life for about a year, in a village unknown to her and among equally unknown people, and to a specific question, she replied that she was happy with her new situation.

I certainly did not expect that she would confess the opposite to strangers.

Regardless of the positive or negative effects on women, it’s important to note that this practice is illegal and that the Laotian government has recently made efforts to educate young Hmong about the negative consequences of this practice and promote safer and consensual ways to find a partner.

We focused only on the Hmong because they provided us with some insights and curiosities, but every ethnic group has stories to tell, interwoven with moments of joy, pain, and resilience. Every story that emerges from the ethnic communities of Laos is a precious piece in the cultural mosaic of the country. Stories that offer a window into both material poverty and the cultural richness and diversity of Laos, allowing us to immerse ourselves in the social and human context of different communities. And during this journey we undertook, we had the opportunity to meet these simple people, we sensed the smell of dignified poverty and the warmth of smiles, the weight of daily struggles, and the sense of belonging; we listened attentively to the stories, tales, and superstitions of a country with a thousand faces that tries to move toward its future, difficult to reach but inevitable to pursue.
The Laotian government has adopted policies to protect and promote the cultural diversity of the country by recognizing citizenship to minority groups and guaranteeing them, as citizens, the same rights and protections provided by law. However, there are still signs of discrimination, especially in access to economic opportunities, but above all, there are still challenges and difficulties that ethnic minorities must face. For example, many ethnic groups have been forced to leave their ancestral lands to make way for large development projects, such as the construction of hydroelectric dams.

Cultural intertwining, contradictions, and the poverty that seems to resist acceptance make Laos, through encounters with the various ethnic groups that comprise it, a fascinating place to explore and understand, teaching us the importance of preserving and valuing cultural diversity here as well as everywhere else in the world.

Photos by Guglielmo Zanchi (Pluto)

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Rising majestically in the heart of Abu Dhabi, the Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque stands not only as a place of daily worship but as a profound testament to Islamic art, cultural harmony, and spiritual grandeur. Built in honor of Sheikh Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan, the founding father of the United Arab Emirates, this architectural marvel is one of the most iconic landmarks in the Middle East and a beacon of intercultural dialogue. Its design seamlessly blends elements from Andalusian, Persian, Ottoman, and Fatimid traditions, creating a visual symphony that transcends borders and celebrates the unity of the Islamic world.

Chandelier in the Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque Abu Dhabi

The mosque’s vast exterior porticoes are lined with 1,096 hexagonal columns, each a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Clad in white marble, these columns are intricately inlaid with floral patterns using the ancient technique of pietra dura—stone marquetry—performed entirely by hand by master artisans. Semi-precious stones such as lapis lazuli, red agate, and mother-of-pearl are carefully embedded into the marble, forming elaborate motifs that reflect both natural beauty and spiritual symbolism. Every column is a tribute to patience, precision, and devotion, embodying the deep connection between art and faith in Islamic tradition.

Domes and Calligraphy

Dominating the skyline are 82 domes of varying sizes, with the largest crowning the main prayer hall. Soaring to a height of 84 meters and spanning 32.6 meters in diameter, this central dome creates a powerful sense of verticality and divine presence. Inside, the domes are adorned with traditional Moroccan-inspired decorations crafted in Glass Reinforced Gypsum (GRG), a durable and lightweight material that allows for intricate detailing. Calligraphic verses from the Holy Quran are elegantly inscribed in multiple Arabic scripts—Naskh, Thuluth, and Kufi—transforming the celestial curves of the domes into sacred texts that seem to embrace the worshippers below.

Minarets and Symbolism

At each corner of the central courtyard, four slender minarets rise to a height of approximately 106 meters, their elegant silhouettes echoing the mosque’s inclusive spirit. Designed with architectural influences from various Islamic civilizations, the minarets symbolize the diversity and unity of the global Muslim community. Topped with golden crescents made of gilded glass mosaic, they serve both as visual landmarks and spiritual symbols. Historically, minarets were used by the muezzin to call the faithful to prayer; today, while the call is amplified electronically, their presence remains a powerful reminder of tradition and devotion.

Courtyards and Floral Patterns

The eastern courtyard welcomes visitors with an organic floral pattern that conveys a message of unity and interconnectedness. Inspired by desert flora native to the UAE, these designs reflect the resilience of life in arid landscapes. The northern and southern entrances feature flowers representative of the northern and southern hemispheres, emphasizing the mosque’s global outreach. The walls themselves are sculpted in high relief, bringing the floral motifs to life in three dimensions. The colored marbles used throughout the mosque come from over 37 countries, further reinforcing the theme of international collaboration and cultural exchange.

Prayer clock in the Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque

Prayer Clock in the Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque Abu Dhabi

Inside the main prayer hall, every architectural element carries deep spiritual meaning. The minbar, or pulpit, stands as one of the oldest features of Islamic religious architecture. With eleven steps carved from American cedar wood, it is richly decorated with floral and shell motifs inlaid with mother-of-pearl, white gold, and glass mosaic. Topped by a small domed canopy and a golden crescent, the minbar symbolizes the continuity of religious leadership and prophetic tradition.

The Mihrab and Divine Symbolism

Adjacent to it is the mihrab, the prayer niche indicating the direction of Mecca. Positioned at the center of the qibla wall, it is where the imam leads the congregation in prayer. This mihrab draws inspiration from a Quranic description of Paradise, where rivers of milk, honey, and water flow abundantly. The golden glass mosaic above the honeycomb-like structure appears to cascade downward like a golden river of honey, evoking divine abundance and spiritual nourishment.

A spectacular sunset behind the mosque

The qibla wall itself faces Mecca, the sacred direction of Muslim prayer. Covered in premium Italian marbles—Aquabianca and Bianco P—it features an elaborate pentagonal floral pattern, each petal containing one of the 99 Beautiful Names of Allah, such as “The Merciful,” “The Compassionate,” and “The Patient,” all rendered in elegant Kufic calligraphy. At the center of this design lies a large circle inscribed with the word “Allah,” serving as the spiritual and visual focal point of the entire space.

The World’s Largest Carpet

Perhaps the most astonishing feature of the prayer hall is its carpet, the largest hand-knotted carpet in the world, certified by Guinness World Records. Spanning 5,400 square meters and weighing 35 tons, it was crafted by around 1,200 artisans over a period of two years. Made of 70% wool and 30% cotton, the carpet features a complex medallion-based Islamic design that radiates symmetry and harmony, guiding the eyes—and the soul—toward the center of worship.

Visitor Etiquette and Guidelines

The Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque is not only a place of prayer but also a living symbol of peace, respect, and cultural understanding. Visitors are asked to honor its sacred nature by dressing modestly—long sleeves, full-length trousers or skirts, and headscarves for women—and avoiding transparent, tight, or revealing clothing. Silence and reverence are encouraged inside: voices should be low, mobile phones on silent, and photography conducted respectfully, without sitting, lying down, or posing inappropriately. Disposable abayas and wireless audio guides are provided and must be returned after use. Eating, drinking, and smoking are strictly prohibited throughout the mosque.

For organized groups, advance booking is essential, and cancellations must be communicated promptly. Professional photography, filming, or media coverage for commercial or promotional purposes requires prior permission from the management. Tour operators are expected to ensure their guests adhere to the mosque’s dress code and behavioral guidelines—known as “Mosque Manners”—before entry.

Conclusion

To visit the Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque is to experience more than architectural splendor; it is to witness the soul of Islam expressed through beauty, precision, and humility. Every column, dome, and verse inscribed in stone tells a story of faith, unity, and the eternal search for the divine. It is a place where grandeur serves not to impress, but to inspire—a sanctuary of peace in a world that deeply needs it.

For visitor guidelines and opening times, check the official Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque Center website.

Photos by Guglielmo Zanchi (Pluto)

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“Samarkand is the wonder of the earth, but Bukhara is the wonder of the spirit.”
(Uzbek proverb)

A Night in Bukhara, History in Tashkent

On the night of October 26, 2024, around 1 a.m., I was sleeping deeply in a warm, welcoming room at the Minzifa Hotel in Bukhara — unaware that history was passing by.

In Tashkent, the capital of Uzbekistan, two people were trying — and failing — to assassinate Komil Allamjonov, one of the country’s most prominent reformist politicians.

It wasn’t the fall of the Berlin Wall. But for Uzbekistan, it was certainly a historically significant moment. For me, it was a curious episode I only learned about after leaving the country — one I now like to recount, even if just in passing.

Political Intrigues and Fragile Futures

Memorial Complex of Imam Al Bukhari in Bukhara Uzbekistan travel

The attempted murder, which I discovered through the Italian podcast “Altri Orienti” (Episode 107 – “The Uzbek Conspiracy”), speaks of political intrigues, international connections, secret services — all the elements that fascinate anyone drawn to the hidden mechanics behind the headlines.

But beyond conspiracy theories, this attack reveals a country still navigating its political passions with little restraint, caught in a fragile post-Soviet transition: an unstable balance between stagnation and modernization, between international alliances that will inevitably shape its future — a future that might, one day, look westward, toward Europe.

Walking the Silk Road

Interior view of the Samanid Mausoleum in Bukhara.

Meanwhile, just 570 kilometers away from that violent event, I was sleeping soundly the sleep of the traveler who’d walked for hours through the very streets once trodden by the hooves of Genghis Khan, who destroyed this land, and Timur (Tamerlane), who helped revive it, especially culturally.

Trampled, above all, by the feet of camels and the footsteps of merchants and travelers who, carrying goods between China and the West, traced the legendary Silk Road.

And what better destination for those who love to travel — whether Bukhara or Samarkand — to truly taste the essence of journeying?

Where else, if not along the Silk Road, can you feel part of that ideal community of men and women who crossed the borders of time, braving unknown lands, treacherous deserts, mountain passes, and bandits — all to reach a distant goal? It hardly matters whether driven by curiosity or profit: it’s an ancient, heroic, deeply human movement.

Breathing the Soul of Travel

The Khoja Gaukushan Ensemble in Bukhara.

Ah yes… walking through the old town of Bukhara, among ancient, nearly crumbling houses, with rainwater spilling from wooden eaves directly into the streets — the kind UNESCO is quietly trying to restore — amid sandy-toned buildings made of sun-dried mud and straw, and the scent of fresh local bread hanging in doorways, spreading through the alleys each morning like the very fragrance of life… here, you truly breathe the soul of travel.

You almost expect to see a caravan of camels arriving from the East, to smell spices in the air, to hear the excited haggling of merchants.

Merchants and Souvenirs

In truth, there are very much here. They sell spices, yes — but above all, souvenirs for the new caravans of tourists now crossing the country.

Stalls appear everywhere — even in the inner courtyards of madrasas, those imposing Islamic schools — and a faint echo of religious teaching sparks a spontaneous thought: why didn’t any prophet ever think to chase the merchants from the temple?

As we said: the merchants are here, selling traditional Uzbek tubeteikas (skullcaps), silk and cotton scarves — Uzbekistan being one of the world’

s largest producers — and the famous astrakhan fur, so prized and so cruel that if people truly knew how much blood it costs, they’d likely not only refuse to buy it, but avoid the stalls altogether.

They sell paintings — which I’m utterly fond of — books, ceramics with camels and caravans, and of course, modern fridge magnets, beloved by the average tourist.

It’s pleasant to wander among trinkets and knick-knacks, to drift from shop to shop, accompanied by the vendor’s discreet presence — never pushy.
Of course, the moment you buy even a pin, their skill emerges in full force, and you end up leaving the shop laden with useless objects — which, turning necessity into virtue, you convince yourself are the perfect souvenirs for your team… or your kind old neighbor back home.

After all, aren’t we in a city of trade?

From Markets to Monuments

The Mir-i-Arab Madrasa in Bukhara, Uzbekistan, featuring its iconic turquoise domes

And just as you leave behind the soft murmur of the stalls, the sweet scent of spices, and the quiet chime of souvenirs, Bukhara reveals its most solemn face. Like a curtain slowly rising, the streets widen, giving way to visions of turquoise domes, slender minarets, and intricately carved portals that seem to emerge from an ancient dream.

It’s the moment when the market’s chatter fades behind you, and you enter the realm of true history — one carved in stone and tile.
Every step brings you closer to a world where caliphs, emirs, poets, invaders, and sages once passed beneath the same arches, sat in the same courtyards, prayed in the same silence.

And then, Bukhara reveals its most fascinating face: that of its monuments, which, while majestic even in daylight, at sunset transform into guardians of suspended time, where every brick, every mosaic, every arch tells a thousand-year-old story.

Guardians of Time at Sunset

The Kalyan Minaret, stands prominent and features intricate geometric patterns.

The golden light of dusk caresses the bulbous domes of the madrasas, painting them in cobalt and turquoise reflections that seem to glow from within. The minarets, tall and stern like sentinels of knowledge, cast long shadows over ancient cobblestones, while a cold breeze carries fragments of sacred calligraphy and the scent of burning incense from the suqs.

In these moments, Bukhara is no longer just a city.
It becomes a daydream, a labyrinth of emotions where past and present intertwine seamlessly.
The Lyabi-Hauz, with its reflective pool surrounded by ancient plane trees, welcomes visitors like an oasis of peace amid the flow of time. The Ulugh Beg and Abdulaziz Khan madrasas, facing each other like guardians of lost knowledge, whisper of students who studied astronomy when Europe was still in the Middle Ages.

And then there’s Po-i-Kalyan, the “Foot of the Great,” dominated by the Kalyan Minaret, built in the 12th century and spared by Genghis Khan — so the legend goes — because it was “too beautiful to destroy.”
It’s here that you truly feel the breath of history: a place where every stone has witnessed conquests, prayers, markets, revolutions.

Listening to the City

Bukhara is not visited only with the eyes.
You listen to it in the silence between steps.
You feel it in the air, thick with spices and antiquity.
You live it in the heartbeat that quickens when, turning a corner, you face a dome that seems painted by the sky itself.

It’s a city that doesn’t shout.
It whispers.
But if you know how to listen, it reveals everything.

Photos by Guglielmo Zanchi (Pluto)

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