It’s 1773, and the red flag of the Tây Sơn movement flies above An Khê town. Due to being squeezed for taxes, people have gathered there in open rebellion against the Lê emperor and their subordinate Nguyễn lords who rule the puppet Kingdom of Champa as their own private thiefdom.

Having strengthened their ranks for two years in An Khê, the Tây Sơn forces are ready to move out from their mountain fastness and prove to the Nguyễn house how formidable the rebel army had become. At the head of the movement at this time is Nguyễn Nhạc, a charismatic and capable leader. I want to share the entry about him in the chronicle Đại Nam chính biên liệt truyện because it amuses me

Nhạc was a betel leaf trader, he used to trade with the barbarians, on his way through An Duong mountain, he got a sword, he said it was a magic sword, he brought it to deceive the people, many people believed him. – Đại Nam chính biên liệt truyện – volume 30 – 1889 (link pp 521)

So, according to his enemies, his only claim to leadership was a magic sword!

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In late summer, Nhạc marched down to the plains with his cavalry and war elephants. They swiftly occupied most of the land of present-day Bình Định. However one thing stood in their way: the formidable fortress of Quy Nhơn held by the provincial governor Nguyễn Khắc Tuyên.

What follows is not attested in chronicles but instead comes from popular folklaw though the story is famous enough, and compelling enough, that I want to include it here.

The story goes that the Tây Sơn army besieged the citadel for 3 days without making any progress. And so Nhạc ordered his army to fall back. Nguyễn Khắc Tuyên was worried that the rebels would regroup in the mountains and continue to be a thorn in his side and so to try and nip the whole thing in the bud the mandarin put a substantial bounty on the capture of Nhạc.

Before long, Nhạc was brought to the citadel gate being carried in a cage, captured by some double-crossing Tây Sơn soldiers. The men carrying the cage announced they had captured the rebel leader and brought him to the provincial governor Nguyễn Khắc Tuyên to face judgement. Tuyên gleefully ordered the prisoner be brought inside.

But it had been planned by Nhạc all along. Nhạc’s cage had been cleverly designed so that it could be opened from the inside, so that night he let himself out of the cage and opened the city gates wide. He sent up a flare which was the signal for the army who had been waiting out of sight to spring into action and take the city. It’s a good thing the Nguyễn governor hadn’t read the story of the trojan horse!

The citizens and merchants of the city celebrated the downfall of Nguyễn Khắc Tuyên who had been a tyrannical ruler. The Tây Sơn now controlled one of the busiest ports in the country and the sea became a major part of their strategy, they would even recruit Chinese pirates.

After the fall of Quy Nhơn citadel, Quy Nhơn prefecture was held by the Tây Sơn dynasty right up until it’s downfall in 1801. They would use the citadel as their capital until 1776, when Nhạc ordered the ancient Đồ Bàn citadel to be repaired and turned into the grand Hoàng Đế citadel: The Emperor Citadel.

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I’ve always liked this story and just generally the character of Nhạc as a cunning people’s hero who united a diverse army, he must have been very charismatic. I couldn’t find any near contemporary sources for the “trojan horse” story so I it may be little more than a legend. Here is the chronicle Đại Nam chính biên liệt truyện again on the fall of Quy Nhơn.

In the autumn of the year Quy Ty (1773), Nhac from Tay Son led his troops down to attack Kien Thanh hamlet… Nhac made a secret agreement with the queen of Champa for aid. He also recruited the names Nhung Huy and Tu Linh and sent them with Nguyen Thung to lead a band of troops down to Quy Nhon prefecture, taking advantage of the night to raid, everyone was afraid of being scattered. The governor, Nguyen Khac Tuyen, fled. – Đại Nam chính biên liệt truyện – volume 30 – 1889 (link pp 523)

I wanted to visit the site of the Quy Nhơn Citadel. Contrary to what you might assume, Quy Nhơn Citadel was not in the bounds of the modern city of Quy Nhơn which would not be established for more than 100 years. The site was next to the current airport at a place called Châu Thành. Archeologists have excavated the site finding 18th century bullets. The citadel recorded to have been built in 1744 (source) (source). Another interesting thing about the site is that lots of relics have been found from a 4th century Champa temple.

Inspired by this story of course I went to visit the site. Today it’s marked by the type of stele you can find in many places, the Vietnamese equivalent of a blue plaque. It sits in a sleepy little village and there are no other traces of the citadel as far as I can see. But one thing that stood out to me was Tháp Phú Lốc Champa tower stood on a nearby hill which would certainly would have been visible from the old citadel. Sometimes the only way to connect with history is looking at the same views they would have been. Did Nhạc look at the tower as he was being carried into the citadel?

Further Reading

• https://nghiencuulichsu.com/2014/11/04/nha-tay-son/

A painting caught my eye; a mob surging towards a castle gate while French soldiers in pith helmets brace to hold the line. This was in the Quy Nhơn Museum back in 2020, and it made me want to walk in the footsteps of those brave folk. But when I tried to find the castle on a map, there wasn’t one. It would be five years before I uncovered the clues that led me to the location.

So continuing the history from my last post, after the Tây Sơn were defeated at the Battle of Thị Nại in 1801 the new Nguyễn dynasty decided that the 800 year old citadel used by the Tây Sơn was passed it’s use-by date. They moved just 5km south to a different distributary of the Côn River and built a modern star-fort. The Citadel was named Bình Định (平定) meaning “Subjugation” — no dressing up what was happening to the Tây Sơn homeland. It was the first time the name Bình Định was used but it would later be the name of the whole province (until discontinued in 2025).

When I showed up in An Nhơn, people were still sweeping up after the typhoon. Leaves were piled along the kerbs and branches lay scattered about, though the town had clearly fared better than the coast. The storm had cleared the air; it was a cloudless blue and the heat was already intense. Part of the reason I’d come was the hope of finding a hotel with electricity, since Quy Nhơn city was completely without power — but An Nhơn was in the same state.

Despite that, I persevered to find some traces of the old citadel. Like most towns in Vietnam, An Nhơn has an arch across the main road to welcome visitors. But while many towns go for something that looks like the Blackpool lights, with flashing technicolour lights, An Nhơn instead greets travellers with a grand, castle-style gate. It marks the site of the original west gate of the citadel. Further down, parts of the old moat survive as ponds thick with water plants, and the local library keeps an old cannon stationed proudly at its entrance. The main street Gia Tự even zigzags where it follows the outline of the former star-fort.

While the Citadel stood, An Nhơn was once the administrative heart of Bình Định and knowing this history solves one modern day mystery about Quy Nhơn city. Tourists come to Quy Nhơn City these days to enjoy the beach but are inconvenienced by the way the railway mainline doesn’t come into the City. Well, Quy Nhơn at the current location would be established by imperial decree in 1898 but was little more than a couple of fishing villages and would not have been at all important enough to consider on the route of the railway, construction on which started in 1899. An Nhơn however does have a railway station named Bình Định.

I stopped for a coffee, choosing a cafe next to the overgrown pond that you can see clearly on a map is the shape of a star-fort moat. I had a chat with some friendly locals who were really keen to hear me speaking Vietnamese and wanted to know all about me. Then the owner insisted I not pay for the coffee. After that, some other locals helped me find the old forts flagpole. After taking a well hidden dirt path between farm buildings, I cam across a brick tiered base with a flagpole, the only structural remains of the citadel left to mark the spot.

After a lot of digging I learned that the painting in the Quy Nhơn Museum depicts the uprising of 1908, when thousands of local rose up to protest high taxes set by the French colonists. The demonstration was mercilessly crushed, many were executed or sent to Côn Đảo — the infamous prison island (source). Today these demonstrators are remembered as heroes of the long fight for freedom.

Would I recommend tourists come here? Probably not. Although my interactions with locals made the day out worthwhile, there isn’t much to “do” or “see.” Visitors from Europe often say South Vietnam lacks history, not much in the way of castles or ruins to speak of. I used to think that too. But it’s here, it just takes a bit of searching to find it. Even in China, most of the “ancient” citadels were reconstructed in the 1980s (source). Perhaps one day Vietnam will follow suit. I think relocating relevant artifacts from other Gia Lai museums to an onsite reconstruction at An Nhơn for the Bình Định Citadel and Hoàng Đế citadel could be a great boost to tourist, especially given the proximity to the airport.

I stopped to take a photo of the Cham tower between the houses and an elderly lady struck up conversation. She pointed to the other side of the road and said I should take a photo of that house too.
I politely asked her why.
She replied matter-of-factly “The storm blew the roof blew off”.

Bình Lâm is a quiet village sat as an island surrounded by flooded rice paddies, the roads rose just above the placid water like causeways. Villagers went about their business with no sense of hurry. It reminded me of the type of lacquered painting of rural scenes you see in many Vietnamese households.

Most Cham towers in the province stand on solitary hilltops, but in Bình Lâm a brick spire rises right in the middle of the village, hemmed in by houses.. As I wonder around and looked inside, taking photos and reading the information board, a grey-haired man is sweeping his front yard just meters away. The signs say this is the oldest surviving tower in Bình Định, built sometime in the 10th or early 11th century (source) but that’s not the only reason it’s interesting to me.

I’d read online that the tower once sat in Thị Nại Castle and I wanted to see if I could see any traces of the fortifications because Wikipedia has a photo of a section of wall. In the days of Champa, the castle guarded the capital of Vijaya from attacks by sea, standing downstream near the mouth of the Kon River as it emptied into Thị Nại Lagoon. Bình Lâm is on an island where the river’s branching distributaries form a natural moat — while the lagoon beyond formed a vast defensive basin enclosed by the long, mountainous Phương Mai Peninsula, with its narrow southern entrance called the Thị Nại Gate.

Across the centuries, the lagoon has witnessed some of the defining moments of Vietnamese history, the sort that fill the chronicles with all their grim detail. If Thành Hoàng Đế was the capital of two kingdoms, then Thị Nại lagoon became their graveyard. Yet none of that weight felt apparent as I drove around the area. The only hint of history is the Bình Lâm tower, faintly visible from the road between Quy Nhơn and Cát Tiến, a resort town known for its giant hillside Buddha. Even the Quy Nhơn Museum understates the history, but a few nineteenth-century cannons from the naval battle that ended the Tây Sơn dynasty stand quietly in the front yard giving a hint about the history.

Here is a 1932 poem by Trường Xuyên

Thi Nai was once a battlefield, the ups and
downs of the world were the result of many dynasties…
The mountains and clouds were billowing where soldiers were fierce,
The sea of ​​red blood had not yet dissipated.
The cold geese played with the emperor’s mirror in
the Phuong Mai forest, covering the wounds of grief.
Sadly, I look back at the scene,
Layers of cars bustling the streets!

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The late afternoon light was weak through the cloud cover, at least I didn’t need to worry about sunburn. I didn’t manage to find any trace of the castle in the end other than the cham tower but it was nice to drive around a quiet village and enjoy the scenery. I rode back down the windswept Phương Mai Peninsula, the wide roads half-buried in sand, giving it a desolate feel. Crossing the long Thị Nại Bridge that today stretches across the middle of the lagoon, I could see the city’s high-rises in the distance, with the odd boat drifting quietly across the calm lagoon.

But I had one final stop to make. It was at my friend Brad’s all-time favourite tourist attraction: the First Vending Machine in Bình Định. Erected in 2007 shortly after the bridge was opened — wow what a venerable relic! It even has a light-up arrow sign, like something out of an American movie. To my dismay, it too had been blown over by the same storm that had lifted a roof off a house in Bình Lâm. Let the chroniclers record one more fallen hero on the banks of the Thị Nại Lagoon.

Appendix

Thị Nại Lagoon has borne witness to some of the defining moments in Vietnamese history. One such event took place in 1284, when a Mongol fleet of over a thousand ships arrived at Thị Nại and took the castle (source). However, unable to make further gains in Champa, the Mongols withdrew and headed north to challenge Đại Việt — where Emperor Trần Hưng Đạo crushed them in battle. Now, a 16-metre statue of Trần Hưng Đạo stands on the tip of the Phương Mai Peninsula watching over the Thị Nại Gate.

Another major event happened two centuries later, in 1471. According to the chronicles, Vietnamese emperor Lê Thánh Tông attacked this castle, beheading a hundred defenders before taking the capital of Vijaya thirteen kilometres inland. From then on the area would be firmly under the control of the Vietnamese — a major milestone in Vietnam’s southward expansion that shaped the country’s modern borders.

On the 27th, the king himself [Lê Thánh Tông] led a large army to attack Thị Nại castle, beheaded more than 100 people. (Đại Việt sử ký toàn thư pp. 1383)

Jump ahead to the early 19th century and Vietnam is torn apart by the civil war between the Tay Son and the Nguyen Lords. Here was The Battle of Thị Nại — a naval battle that took place in 1801 — considered to be the decisive victory for the Nguyen dynasty. The Tay Son lost around 20,000 men and almost the entire fleet: 1,800 ships and 600 cannons. Some cannons have been recovered from the lagoon and are displayed outside Quy Nhơn museum, tangible reminders of the fierce history the calm waters hide.

The enemy held the fortress and fought fiercely. From the hour of Dần to the hour of Ngọ, the sound of guns resounded throughout the sky, bullets flew like rain. … Duyệt [Lê Văn Duyệt] swore to offer his life, waved his troops to charge forward, and at the right moment entered the sea gate, using fire torches to attack the enemy’s flagship. The Tây Sơn army was broken and many died. Dũng [Võ Văn Dũng] was defeated and fled. The Tây Sơn boats were almost all burned. Our army then held Thị Nại Gate. People praised this battle as the greatest martial art – Đại Nam thực lục

In 1885, the castle was occupied by the French, then, some time during the reign of emperor Thành Thái (1889-1907), the castle was demolished and the area turned into farmland. Not needing the natural defenses, the modern city of Quy Nhơn continued to grow outside the Thi Nai gate for easy access for shipping vessels and fishing ships alike, as well as a beautiful beach-front attracting tourists.

Links

• https://web.archive.org/web/20100122100529/http://www.baobinhdinh.com.vn/datnuoc-connguoi/2006/9/31947/
• https://vi.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C4%90%E1%BA%A7m_Th%E1%BB%8B_N%E1%BA%A1i
• https://nghiencuulichsu.com/2016/11/16/thuy-chien-thi-nai-nhung-thien-anh-hung-ca/

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 (link). Over his lifetime, he reportedly caught 298 wild elephants.

He recieved recognition from Hồ Chí Minh himself for contributing elephants to the war effort in the first indo-chine war against the French (source).

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