I’ve always been curious about the dramatic storms you see in films like cyclones and twisters. What is it like to experience one first hand? Well, I ended up being right at the epicenter of a tropical typhoon. Here’s my story.

Steve, a tall Englishman with cropped grey hair and the air of someone who’s seen it all, runs a small beachside resort of bamboo huts and a backpacker dorm just outside Quy Nhơn City, central Vietnam. We’d arranged that I’d come down to help out for a bit—hosting guests in exchange for a bunk, meals, and all the beer I can drink.

But when I arrived, there was a spanner in the works. Steve was fretting over the forecast. He’d been in Vietnam twelve years and had seen enough storms to know when one meant trouble. “It’s going to be the worst since 2017,” he told me. For me, this was a bit of an adventure but for him, his whole livelihood was at risk. The forecasts showed the storm would make landfall almost exactly here – Quy Nhơn was to be the epicenter.

He didn’t like having guests around in that kind of weather—too risky if something happened or needed to reach a hospital. He suggested I find a hotel in town. I took the hint and went on Wednesday, choosing somewhere a few streets back from the seafront (it seemed sensible).

At check-in, the staff warned me: There’s a storm coming.
I said I knew.
There will be no power tomorrow, they added.
That was fine by me.

That evening, I went to the supermarket to stock up on supplies. There was a buzz of urgency like going to the supermarket on Christmas Eve. The crisp and instant noodle aisles had been stripped bare. I needed things that wouldn’t require cooking or refrigeration—fruit, bottled water, chocolate, and a few packs of dried squid and “Peperami” for protein.

Afterwards, I stopped by 69 Pub, run by my friends Kevin and Trinh. There I bumped into one of the Pleiku old boys, and we drank late into the night. He was planning to drive back to the highlands the next morning to visit Kevin, and invited me along. But the idea of taking the infamous An Khê Pass in a typhoon didn’t appeal. Better to hunker down and wait it out.

Outside, workers were busy cutting branches from trees and tying trunks to buildings. The news reported that 140 people had died when the same storm swept through the Philippines. From my hotel window, I looked out over a patchwork of tin roofs weighed down with a variety of things – tires, polystyrene crates, binbags full of water.

By eight in the morning, it looked like a normal rainy day outside. The wind was nothing alarming yet—just the usual “better to curl up with a book” kind of weather. The housekeepers knocked on my door. They were going home after finishing their round and handed me extra bottles of water and a fistful of instant coffee sachets.

By ten, the food stalls had all closed up. A few people still hurried along the pavements. I made a pot noodle in my room and was reminded of Saigon during the covid-19 lockdowns. I realise for the first time that ever since then, I’ve hated staying indoors. I always have to get out and go somewhere every day. Sometimes I hop from cafe to cafe all day long. I sit back on the bed and mentally prepare to stay put like back in lockdown.

By noon, the rain was slanting hard against the windows. The building groaned under the wind. The afternoon light was dim like midwinter, the clouds were heavy. There was still some traffic, even a few motorbikes out but no one was out on foot now. I ate snacks, read, and watched YouTube.

At five a friend in the Pleiku police called me to tell me that Quy Nhơn was planning to turn the power off soon. I decided to eat my second pot noodle while I still could but the power went before the kettle boiled. The city was plunged into the gloom of the fading light filtered through the storm. My first thought, “do I have enough phone battery?” The wind was now howling between the buildings, flinging debris across the street. It sounded like an approaching tube train that never arrived. A shop sign scraped along the road as if it had a mind of its own. I could feel the window pulsing under the pressure. Suddenly, a man walked past in shorts and flip-flops, no shirt – only in Vietnam! Bits of roofing came loose above me.

I watched as the building opposite, the one with binbags full of water as ballast. The bags were popping, emptying then flying up into the air as if being abducted by aliens.

At seven it all suddenly stopped. After hours of steady escalation, the silence felt unreal. I wondered if we were in the eye of the storm. I’m anxious to know if the storm will come back. Outside, people were out with torches, small coordinated gangs of men moving with purpose—they were quickly moving the large dangerous pieces of debris into basements.

When I opened the window, a strong smell hit me. It was part sea breeze, part earth after rain, and part something electric, like licking a 9 volt battery. Then the wind returned—as suddenly as it had stopped—I quickly shut the window. Down in the street, a single torchlight darted past, the point of light wobbling as a man sprinted across the wind.

I lay down alone in the darkness, the bed shaking as the whole building rattles with the wind. I thought of Steve at the coast, his huts facing the wind, and wondered how they were holding up.

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I woke at six to stillness and clean blue skies. There was no power and no phone signal. I decided my lockdown was over. I slung my camera over my shoulder, then hesitated—was it crass to photograph the wreckage?

Like many modern hotels, mine had no guest stairwell, and with the lift dead, I took the outside fire escape to the lobby. The front door was barricaded with sofas and tied shut with rope, so I slipped out through the basement car park, ducking beneath a screen door which someone had bent just enough to get under.

I needn’t’ve worried about the camera. If anything, they encouraged me. “Take a photo of that!” one man called, pointing to a billiards parlour reduced to rubble. Another insisted I take his portrait. This area has only hotels and restaurants so perhaps people felt no privacy was being invaded.

The street looked like a bomb hit. Several buildings had collapsed roofs, some are just piles of splintered wood so I can’t even tell what there were before. Many of the big hotels have windows smashed out. Street lights, trees and telegraph poles lay across the tarmac. Power cables dangled all over the road like vines in the jungle.

A group of university students ran past, laughing, clutching coconuts that must have blown from some public trees. Many of the men I passed were out inspecting the damage, hands on hips, giving me the same look that seemed to say, “Would you look at that.” There was a strange sense of camaraderie, as if we’d all survived something together.

I wandered back down to 69 Pub, where I’d been drinking two days earlier, to see how it had fared. The front was unrecognisable: the sign’s letters had vanished, trees were down, and the air-conditioning unit dangled by its pipe. But the squat building with its rolling shutters looked largely intact from where I stood. It felt strange—two nights ago there was laughter and music, now it was just silent.

“Yeah dude… fuckin sucks,” Kevin texted back when I sent him a photo.

By seven, the city was alive with activity: shop-owners swept, some street cafés had open, an old lady was selling something fried for breakfast from a grill on the street. Sirens blared as police and ambulances went past at regular intervals. The army were clearing the hospital. Quy Nhơn was already piecing itself back together. I was amazed by the resilience of the people here.

With schools closed, there are gangs of kids out enjoying the seafront. The road along the seafront has about a foot deep in sand making a brand new beach for them to play in as motorbikes gingerly drove by – the actual beach was covered in debris and litter. One of the parks along the promenade has filled with water making a temporary swimming pool, kids were splashing around having a whale of a time, some even have floats. It reminds me of the day we got sent home because of a storm when I was in secondary school in England. What frightened adults felt like adventure to us kids.

By late afternoon, electricity flickered back to life in some small parts of the city. Most of Quy Nhơn remained dark, though, lit only by the flow of mopeds. I found a different hotel with electricity and text Steve

“How’s it going?”

I get one word in response: “Catastrophe”.

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The next morning, as I ate phở for breakfast, a convoy of huge military flatbed trucks thundered past — maybe twenty in all. Later, I saw them carting away fallen trees, street lamps, even heaps of sand to a builders’ yard outside town. I guessed that must have been the sand that turned the coast road into a beach.

When the petrol stations reopened, I filled up and drove back to Steve’s resort. The first thing I saw was the staff dorm where I’d been sleeping. There was no roof. The Vietnamese staff were squatting outside the guest dorm, which was luckily undamaged.

“Was anybody hurt?” I asked.
“No… oh yes, Steve.”
“What happened?”
“He’s got a broken heart.”

I found Steve with a towel over his head, salvaging furniture from a roofless room. He told me I could consider myself officially dismissed from my volunteer role.

You can view more photos here: https://photos.app.goo.gl/tCNZ4c9YY2A1pegSA

I’m experimenting with a new format for my post where all the historical/geographic details will come at the end in appendices.

It was a quiet street in the early morning, almost empty except for a lone man leisurely passing by on an elephant. The great beast padded softly on the tarmac, surprisingly quiet for its size. The rider looked bored — just another Wednesday morning. Around them, the town stirred slowly: weathered wooden stilt houses, smoke drifting from cooking fires, the air already losing the night’s cool. This is Buôn Đôn which has long been a cultural crossroads. Not only Vietnamese, but the indigenous M’nông and Êđê call the town home, and there’s even a small yet significant Laotian community established since the late nineteenth century.

I hadn’t even planned to come to Buôn Đôn. I’d been on the road since dawn, making several stops along the way (including a midday dip in a waterfall). By the time I reached my intended destination — the Champa tower at Yang Prong — schoolchildren were spilling out of classrooms, meandering home on their bicycles and e-bikes. Both I and my moped were plastered in sunbaked mud after kilometre upon kilometre of dirt tracks through the sparse dry forest typical of the highlands.

The ancient temple stood in a pocket of untamed jungle, towering trees filtering shafts of light onto the red brickwork. It’s the last of its kind in the Central Highlands – standing strong and dignified like an elephant. At its base, sticks of incense burned beside candles and small offerings of fruit and bottled drinks, freshly left by locals. Soon after I arrived, a group of schoolchildren came to hangout. They asked the usual English learner questions — “What’s your name? Where are you from?” — then asked me to pose with them for a photo. The tower was worth the journey, but I’d driven an awfully long way, and the sky was already dimming. A glance at Google Maps showed “Buôn Đôn” was a town an hour’s drive south had some places to stay.

After waiting a quarter of an hour in the dark, the owner appeared on a moped with her daughter and unlocked a vacant hut for me. The attic-like single room had three beds, thin plank walls, and textiles in vaguely tribal patterns. You might call it glamping. The first place I’d tried to stay rejected me saying that didn’t host foreigners. I sat on the veranda eating instant noodles, listening to the night chorus of insects and frogs. It wasn’t the most comfortable night — the mattress was hard, and a pair of tree frogs kept launching themselves across the room with loud thuds — but I was too tired to care. So much for glamour.

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The hoofprints, the smell of blood, the jawbone — all signs pointed to a ritual animal sacrifice. In Buôn Đôn, the old traditions die hard. Each grave is marked by a sarcophagus-like tomb, topped with a tin roof and flanked at the corners by carved animal figures. A headstone, often bearing a faded photograph, watches over a small wooden offering tray at the front. I counted at least four such graveyards scattered around the town. However, more impressive were the three large mausoleums, each with its own story to tell.

These mausoleums belong to three generations of leaders who held the title Elephant King from the mid 19th century until 2012. Their tombs are striking structures, built in the Lao style rare in Vietnam, with ornate stupa-like structure pointing towards the sky. There is no current Elephant king but their legacy lives on in Buôn Đôn’s enduring association with elephants. Several sites around town still keep elephants for visitors to see, though the days of elephant-back rides, races, and other activities have been stopped because they’re considered inhumane.

I’d set off the morning before hoping to learn about a Champa tower, but I’d also managed to stumble upon the legacy of a dynasty of elephant kings. It was a reminder that the Central Highlands still has secrets to be uncovered — if I ever get the chance.

Appendix A

Yang Prong Champa Tower

Although there are many archeological sites in the Central Highlands from the Champa kingdom, Yang Prong is the only complete Cham tower in the region (Google Maps Link for Yang Prong). It stands just outside the small town of Ea Rốk in north-west Đắk Lắk in a small patch of jungle shaded by tall trees. This contrasts with the Cham towers I’ve visited in Bình Định, which tend to stand exposed on bare hilltops. The canopy made the place cool and pleasant to sit on one of the benches for a while and quietly reflect. Yang Prong in Ede means the tower of the Great God, the god who controls the crops according to local custom.

The tower was built as a shrine to Shiva by King Jaya Simhavarman III (Chế Mân) in the late 13th century. Chế Mân is remembered as the Cham ruler who allied with Đại Việt to repel the Mongol invasion, and later married the Vietnamese princess Huyền Trân in exchange for the territories of Châu Ô and Châu Lý. The union is seen by many as marking the beginning of Champa’s decline.

Sources say the tower was once part of a citadel complex, similar to the one I wrote about at Hoàng Đế but much smaller (source). Fresh offerings of fruit, incense sticks, and candles suggest continuing local reverence. When I arrived at dusk, a group of children were hanging out after school. The site felt like a part of the fabric of the local community.

The Đắk Lắk provincial authorities have expressed interest in promoting tourism to the Yang Prong tower. In my opinion, the site could be enhanced with a path running along the riverbank, allowing visitors to better appreciate the landscape and setting of the monument.

Interestingly, to connect the Champa ruins to the topic of elephant kings, the stele of Drang Lai from 1435CE found at modern day Ayunpa speaks of “Close political ties between the lowlands and highlands led to the integration of the ‘Great king of the Montagnards’ within a territory called Madhyamagrāma, and the vassalage of Śrī Gajarāja (‘King of the Elephants’)” (source). Y Thu may have been aware of a long tradition of elephant kings when he took the title.

Appendix B

Y Thu K’Nul: Elephant King I

The oldest mausoleum in Buôn Đôn is to Y Thu K’Nul and was constructed in 1938. He is reported to have been 110 years old when he died. source, source

Y Thu K’Nul was a man of the M’nông peoples. He also had an affinity for the Lao people and adopted their style of dress. This is probably connected to the fact there was a budding Laos diaspora in the area at the time (source). In fact the name Buôn Đôn is said to be from Laos (ດອນ) meaning islands, for all the small islands in the area on the river (source).

He was supposedly given the title Khunjunob which according to Vietnamese sources means Rich and Noble Man. He was given this title in 1861 by the Siamese emperor upon delivering a white elephant. I can’t find any source for this that isn’t Vietnamese although Khun (ขุน) is Thai for chieftain.

In 1933 Emperor Bảo Đại visited Buon Ma Thuot where Y Thu arranged for the emperor to be greeted by 162 elephants lining the road. Several photographs survive of this event.

According to historical documents kept at Dak Lak Museum, in the 1900s, when Y Thu was over 70 years old, he stopped participating in elephant hunting, taming and trading and handed over his career to his son, R’leo K’Nu.

He is buried in a mausoleum in Buôn Đôn and his son R’leo K’Nu was later buried next to him. Google Maps Link

Appendix C

Y Prông Êban: Elephant King III AKA Ama Kong

Ama Kông (1910–2012), born Y Prông Êban, was the third and final generation of elephant kings succeeding R’leo K’Nu. His name is well known today partly because of a brand of herbal mens-health tea sold at almost all tourist destinations in Dak Lak. Over his lifetime, he reportedly caught 298 wild elephants.

He was recognised by Hồ Chí Minh for his contributions to the first indo-chine war.

His final hunt took place in 1996, after which he retired to train elephants for Yok Đôn National Park.

He died in 2012, said to be over a hundred years old. His tomb, built in the Lao style, is in the middle of Buôn Đôn. Google maps link.

Appendix D

White Elephants

While researching this article, I kept coming across white elephants. Ama Kong is reported to have captured 3 (source). Y Thu K’Nul also captured one which he gifted to the Vietnamese Emperor Bảo Đại (source).

Why do the sources mention about white elephants? Well owning white elephants is a symbol of royalty in south east asia. The tradition comes from Buddhism where white elephants are associated with Śakra, the ruler of the Trāyastriṃśa Heaven. They are so important that the Burmese-Siamese War of 1563–1564 was fought over white elephants.

I was surprised to learn white elephants are not actually white. They may be pink or have pink patches. In Thailand, white elephants are “graded” and lower grades are often rejected by the king.

According to the experience that Mr. Ama Kong passed on to his son, to distinguish white elephants from normal elephants, one can only look at their eyes and tusks. White elephants have blue eyes, and pink tusks. Herds containing white elephants are often very large, they are very gentle, and especially white elephants are always in the center. – on Khăm Phết Lào son of Ama Kong

Of course we have the idiom “white elephant” this is from the convention in Thailand where the king will give lower grade white elephants to people who have annoyed him. The sacred animals are not allowed to work but must be looked after at great expense to the owner.

This blog post is about a visit I made to Hoàng Đế Citadel in Bình Định, South Vietnam. It’s a 40 minute drive from Quy Nhơn City.

The only respite from the harsh Bình Định sun was inside the tower, though the air inside reeked of guano. Besides, the ornamentation on its flank unnerved me, the crumbling brickwork seemed to form a huge skull.

The air was dry and dusty, the grass wilted, and the only movement came from a few cows and buffalo grazing by the rice paddies down at the foot of the hill. Insects buzzed in the bush. I scrunched up my eyes, scanning the countryside. From my vantage point I could see another tower on a rise about ten kilometres away, orange bricks standing tall through the hazy air. “Well, now I’ve seen it, I’ll have to visit that one too,” I thought. And so the afternoon went, the sun unrelenting as I scrambled up one hill after another, to get up close to the ancient towers that crowned them.

These solitary towers perched atop a lot of hills in the province are the remains of ancient Hindu temples built by the Champa Kingdom. Today, these towers stand among the last visible traces of the medieval kingdom and are iconic symbols in the minds of locals of the lost civilisation. But the towers are not the only traces left. Earlier that day, quite by accident, I had found something that made me see the Champa story in a whole new light.

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My trip that spring had begun with a jaunt down to the seaside accompanied by Emma — an old friend, fellow Brit and wonderful mentor from my English teaching days in Pleiku. This time, she had journeyed from Kuwait to catch up with old faces and get some vitamin sea before heading back to England. We’d spent Tết together in the picturesque cove of Bãi Xép, near Quy Nhơn city. Fittingly for this story, the city was decked out in Champa-themed decorations for the Year of the Snake, blending local history with the Chinese zodiac. On New Year’s Eve, we ambled down to the beach to watch the fireworks bloom over the distant city dancing on the waves. Some village children dashed about with firecrackers, their shouts mingling with the bangs, maybe to summon luck for the year ahead.

I didn’t fancy spending too long lounging by the sea. Fresh from a breakup, I wanted to keep my mind occupied. So while Emma stayed to enjoy the sandy beaches, I turned inland alone on a sort of personal pilgrimage. I set off towards the high altitude city of Pleiku on my trusty old 110cc Honda Blade — the farmers’ favourite — planning to stop anywhere that looked interesting along the way.

The first stop, just outside Quy Nhơn, was a pin on Google Maps that had caught my eye. But when I rolled up, it didn’t look like much — a small village snoozing away the hot national holiday; no tourists, no ticket booth, but thankfully no inflated holiday parking prices. The gate was modest, one might mistake it for a local pagoda. However, the pair of weathered elephant statues outside gave a hint that this village had an illustrious past. Because here, I later learned, had once been Chà Bàn citadel (sometimes called Đồ Bàn), the administrative heart of the Vijaya, Champa — and the place where the kingdom’s story came to an end.

I parked the moped and slipped in through a small open gate beside the main entrance. Inside, I found myself alone in a two-hectare grassy field, hemmed in by a wall of large orange stone slabs. A flagpole stood proud in the centre, flanked by a few pagoda-esque structures. It is the sort of place where you might want to stretch out on the grass under a tree with a flask of iced tea and a bánh mì and listen to the birds singing. So that’s exactly what I did (I’d had the foresight to buy a bánh mì Vietnamese sandwich on the road). Off to the east, perched on a low hill outside the tourist zone, I could see a Cham tower watching quietly over the empty field.

Only later did I learn that this tidy little visitor site is but a postage stamp compared to the original citadel. The ancient stronghold of Vijaya once sprawled across an area of more than three hundred hectares – nearly twice the size of Huế Citadel. A French archaeologist sketched it a century ago, American topographical maps caught it again during the war, and now, with the powers of satellite imagery, I’ve traced its rough outline on Google Earth. As it turns out, that Cham tower, not the flagpole, was the centre point of the original citadel. (source)

What struck me on my second visit was how big the rampart of the outer wall was. I’d totally missed it on my first visit because I’d made a B-line from the main road to the elephant statues but if you approach from the south you pass through a huge mound of earth that reminded me of the unrestored parts of Great Wall of China more than anything – trees growing on it, farms butting against it, roads cutting through it. I estimate the walls must have stood at least 6 meters tall.

Chà Bàn Citadel saw some of the highpoints in Champa history. For example in 1377, Trần Duệ Tông of Đại Việt led an army to attack Chà Bàn in retaliation for several devastating raids Vijaya had perpetrated against Hanoi. Vijaya’s king at the time R’chăm B’nga the Great set a trap for the emperor by feigning surrender only to ambush the Tran forces. In the fray, the Trần Emperor was killed by an arrow. (source)

Archaeological finds from the site tell other stories: local pottery fragments, roof tiles, and lion statues. A number of relics are now on display at the Bình Định Museum in Quy Nhơn, while a pair of dvarapalas (buddhist gate guardians) are enshrined at a nearby pagoda, venerated by the locals to this day and having many folk stories surrounding them. I went to see them on my second visit to the area and was amazed by how large they are, they are tall and weight 800kg are quite intimidating.

The citadel of Vijaya stood strong and proud as the capital city, right up until it didn’t. The chronicle: The Complete Annals of Đại Việt, records how during the reign of Vijaya king Maha Sajan (Trà Toàn), a campaign in 1471 led by mighty Vietnamese emperor Lê Thánh Tông sacked the citadel and in doing so brought Champa to its knees. The chronicle doesn’t skimp on the details and is a surprisingly good read. In the quote below you can see evidence of when the Citadel fell with some gory details.

On the 28th [March 19, 1471], the king besieged Chà Bàn citadel … 
On March 1 [March 22, 1471] ,Chà Bàn citadel was captured, more than 30,000 people were captured, more than 40,000 heads were cut off, Trà Toàn was captured alive, and the army returned.(Đại Việt sử ký toàn thư pp. 1383-1384)

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But the story of this citadel doesn’t end with the fall of Champa. In the late 18th century, more than three centuries after Chà Bàn Citadel fell, it found itself swept up in the drama of the Tây Sơn Rebellion.

I’ve already talked in another post about my stop at Tây Sơn Thượng Đạo further up the road that same day. Well, the citadel here was the other major stage in this power struggle. By 1778, the underdog hero Nguyễn Nhạc had driven both the entrenched powers of the Lê and Nguyễn houses (no relation, just an unfortunately common surname) out of south-central Vietnam. After proclaiming himself Emperor Quang Trung—because why not—he needed a suitably imperial seat of power.

He chose the site of Chà Bàn for his center which then became known as Hoàng Đế Citadel. The interim time was a period of the area being opened up for Vietnamese people to move from the north and settle (source). There are records that prior, the Nguyễn clan had a fortification just 1km north of Chà Bàn’s outer wall, but when Nguyễn Nhạc defeated these forces he chose to relocate to the heard of the old Cham citadel. At the Quang Trung Museum, a mural shows an artist’s impression of the citadel during Tây Sơn rule.

After the defeat of Tây Sơn at the decisive naval battle of Thi Nai in 1801, the fortress fell to the Nguyễn forces the very next day. The name was changed to Binh Dinh meaning “subjugated”, this later became the name of the whole province until 2025.

The fortress was left to Võ Tánh and Ngô Tùng Châu to defend and they were soon besieged by Tay Son forces. The siege lasted 14 months. Food ran out and the defending army had to eat the horses and the elephants. Võ Tánh continued to hold out in order to keep the Tay Son army occupied to allow the emperor to conquer Hue. When it became clear there was no hope left, Ngô Tùng Châu committed suicide by drinking poison. After burying his friend and colleague, Võ Tánh locked himself in the Octagonal Pagoda then set it ablaze. Moved by their bravery, the Tay Son commander gave Võ Tánh a funeral and constructed a circular tomb. Both graves can still be seen in the citadel site. (source)

Finally in 1814 a more modern fort was built 5km source which stood as the administrative center of Binh Dinh province until 1930 when it was moved to Quy Nhon City and the age of citadels was over.

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After my little picnic in the citadel (with all that history still unknown to me), I stood up, brushed off the bánh mì crumbs and ambled over to Cánh Tiên tower. There was a ticket booth this time but no ticket seller, so I did what any responsible citizen would do: I quietly slipped in through the fence and had a look around. Cham towers are always worth a visit. Their ornate, regal, and mystical forms are like something an explorer in a pith helmet would stumble upon in the jungle in a storybook — even if they do often smell of guano.

As I admired the tower, I noticed another tower perched on a distant hill. Then another. And another. That became the pattern for the rest of the afternoon: visit one tower, spot the next. By the time the sun began to dip, I’d visited four Cham towers and traced a good stretch of this region’s layered past before rolling on towards Tây Sơn District to learn what history could be learned there.

I’d set off to try and outrun heartbreak and found myself drawn to these ancient places. Why am I so captivated by the ruins? Perhaps it’s because their broken walls reflect something inside of me. Or perhaps it’s a feeling that if I can’t make sense of my own story, maybe I can at least trace the stories written on the hills of this wonderful country that I have come to call my home.

Further Reading

• https://focusasiatravel.com/the-cham-towers-ancient-citadel-of-vijaya/
• https://brill.com/view/journals/arwh/5/2/article-p70_70.xml?language=en&srsltid=AfmBOoo_K_OksHsJ981plooztYFuszNjHW0Emn-AYUMMk3Ef5WUcBfJb

The well-known travel guide Rough Guides has this to say about Pleiku:

Though it’s not terribly easy on the eye, the regional capital of Pleiku possesses a carefree air quite in keeping with its far-flung location. The city was wrecked during the war, and so little of it was left standing that a near-total reconstruction was required when hostilities ceased. (source as of 08/01/2024)

This comment irritates me because it’s clear the author didn’t research properly. Pleiku wasn’t destroyed by the war—it was built by the war. The city expanded dramatically to meet wartime needs. Before the war, Pleiku was little more than a few bungalows and French administrative buildings. Contrary to Rough Guides‘ claim, many of these original buildings still stand today (source). It seems the writer visited, spent one night, found the city wasn’t Hoi An, and made assumptions based on a quick impression. However, for those who know where to look, some prewar remnants can be seen.

One such piece of history is Pleiku Prison, a site worth visiting if you’re interested in the countries past. Built around 1925, the prison housed both unruly indigenous peoples and political prisoners. The complex was surrounded by 3-meter-high walls and layers of barbed wire. Today, only one of the original buildings remains intact – but with it’s cramped, gloom cells – it’s a sobering glimpse into the past.

During the Second Indochina War, There was also a separate POW camp, where uniformed combatants were held, while civilian dissidents with suspected communist sympathies were imprisoned in the inner-city jail. It is claimed that after the Tet offensive of 1968 the prison help 800 captives. On March 15, 1975 the South Vietnamese were in a hasty retreat from Pleiku and the prisoners managed to break out of the prison prior to the arrival of the North Vietnamese army.

Unfortunately, I’m unable to give any other perspective on the prison because I’ve never been able to find any French or American records other than it being marked on the city map. I also can’t find any old photos. If you have any sources, please let me know.

Visiting Pleiku Prison is free. The main gate is typically locked and entry is via a smaller gate just at the top corner of the site. Today, there is a monument dedicated to the prisoners in the forecourt, commemorating their hardships and escape. In the Gia Lai province museum you can find a handkerchief which embroidered by Pham Kim Cuc during her time in Pleiku prison from 1968-1972 (source).