The intention for my trip is quiet meditation – and, perhaps, a closer connection to my own heritage. Born in the West, now living in Ho Chi Minh, I’ve always been drawn to Vietnam’s coasts – mist-shrouded stretches of seafaring people, settled for millennia. I reach my Lakeside Villa, tucked within a wooded clearing, at golden hour. Warm rays burst through the slatted blinds, illuminating the room. I sink in and reemerge hours later, the sun drifting behind the distant trees, and later fall asleep to the hum of cicadas.  

The next morning, we rise and set off for nearby Goga Peak, reaching the rocky promontory just as the cool blue sky flushes with early morning orange tones. From this vantage point, it’s clear: Amanoi reveals itself in its own time. A secluded, cliffside infinity pool, adorned by colourful paper lanterns, appears. Villas coalesce into their surroundings. Tropical trees and myrtle flowers, bursting in vibrant pinks, pepper the landscape.  

Wandering over to Amanoi’s Spa Pavilion, set on a lotus-covered lake, I opt for a Vietnamese massage, combining smooth, flowing pressure. After about an hour, I feel a dozen glass jars, previously heated, placed on my back. My therapist carefully twists each cup off with a soft pop, releasing new blood into my tight muscles. Later, I realise a headache I had earlier has gone.

At dusk, we venture down to Vinh Hy for a glimpse of daily life. Ten minutes away, the bay is quiet at this hour, with colourful wooden fishing boats docked for the evening. But the area still hums with life. A group of smiling kids steers a circular basket boat towards us. A small grocery store acts as a gathering place. A snowy-haired elder sits shirtless, eating Java olive tree nuts.  

Life here is busy, yet not particularly rushed. Even as Vinh Hy has become more popular, the locals live as they have for generations; following the schedule of the sun, adhering to the tides. When the weather’s bad, they rest.  

Timeless sensibilities are evident, too, in the nearby fishing village of Thai An, which sees even fewer outsiders. In recent years, the village has become known for growing grapes, an activity only made possible due to Ninh Thuan’s dry climate and sandy soil. Arriving at the beach at sunset, we do as the locals do and congregate on a pier. There’s no big, scenic bay here, but friends and families still gather to greet boats and take in the view. Children frolic in the water; some cannonball in. 

As the sun rises the next day, we head to the provincial capital of Ninh Thuan, Phan Rang. While most people think of “Vietnamese” as a singular people, the Kinh majority are but one of 54 ethnic groups in Vietnam, each with distinct languages, customs and beliefs. Here in Ninh Thuan, the Kinh live among the coastal Cham and highland Raglai.  

An anthropologist’s paradise, the city is rich in history dating back to the 2nd century. At Po Klong Garai, an ancient Hindu Cham temple, there’s a gravity that transcends any specific belief. As we peruse the ruins, we make friends with a group of teenage Buddhist monks on a class trip from the Mekong Delta. At My Nghiep Champa Weaving Village, a cluster of buildings dedicated to the art of Cham textiles, we learn how locals are preserving their culture through craft. Those who remain, working its labour-intensive hand looms, are longtimers – keepers of the flame.  
 

At the Bau Truc Pottery Village, a similar scene unfolds. In the back, a crew of veterans are hard at work upholding this traditional craft. One elder, who we simply call “Auntie”, is dressed in a long, mint leaf-green tunic and traditional burgundy Cham headdress. She's in her eighties and has been making pottery her entire life. In Cham tradition, there are no mechanical wheels. Instead, she walks in circles, gradually moulding and forming the clay with her hands. She hardly looks up, concentrating on pinching the vase to resemble a flower.  

Amanoi is also engaged in honouring the Cham way of life. That evening, we’re invited to a sacred blessing, conducted by one of the few masters in the area. A Cham man and woman sit on the timber deck, graced by statues of Hindu deities. Both are dressed in white, save for red tassels on the master’s headpiece. The ceremony commences with hypnotic chants. The master plays a drum and a folk-style string instrument. His colleague keeps rhythm with the click clack of a wooden block. The master pours shots of rice liquor, beckoning us towards the altar. After the last prayer, the master thanks us. He is a native of Ninh Thuan who learned these arts from a young age. His pride for his craft is apparent. Although we pray to different gods, I feel humbled by the shared sanctity of this moment.  

On our last day, we turn inwards, setting off on a trek to the mountain village of the Raglai people – who share some traits with the Cham, but diverged into the highlands hundreds of years ago. Raglai, in their language, means ‘forest’. One of our Amanoi guides – a Raglai native who was born and raised here – reveals that her ancestors lived much further up, 400 metres above sea level. Today, many reside here, in a lower buffer zone within Nui Chua, where the government has built homes and paved roads. Still, they keep their traditions: in line with matrilineal systems, our guide tells us that she courted her husband – the woman’s family traditionally pays the dowry, too.

We push further into the unspoiled jungle. Many Raglai still practice an animistic belief system, believing these hills are inhabited by various local deities and spirits. Weaving past hardwoods and low-slung flowering trees, I’m struck by the stark contrast to the arid cliffs of Amanoi. Spread over 24,000 hectares, Nui Chua is home to some 1,500 plant species, 163 birds and 84 mammals, including the protected Vietnamese mouse deer and endemic, black-shanked douc langur. Our guide tells us that bears and tigers once roamed these parts many generations ago.

Crossing streams, we ascend towards older Raglai lands in the mountain, reaching a clearing and the home of our guide’s sister and her husband – our hosts for a jungle picnic. They have a home below, but choose to live here to tend to the farmland. “Down there, I can’t sleep” he tells us. “Here, I wake to the birds.” Wedges of dragon fruit and watermelon arrive, followed by chunks of cassava. Energised, we return to Amanoi to enjoy the water.

Down at the property’s Beach Club, our motorboat awaits. Our captain, a former fisherman, tells us he spent hundreds of days at sea before joining Amanoi. Pulling out of Amanoi’s secluded bay, we pass blue fishing boats and gargantuan rock formations tower above us. Though not as tall as the limestone karsts of Ha Long Bay, their rust-like hues and jagged shapes beguile.  

As the boat docks, we invite our guides to join us for a final dinner in Vinh Hy. We make our way to a popular seafood hawker, who sells fresh lobster, urchins, clams and saltwater snails, cooked to order. We request all four with ice-cold local beers.  

Spooning urchin out of the shell, I feel as at peace here as I do at Amanoi. In remote Ninh Thuan, fishing nets are woven one strand at a time and time-honoured clay pots are shaped by weathered hands in an almost meditative practice. At Amanoi, too, there’s a rooted sense of pace and place wedded to its creation. Both extensions of their surroundings. Both leaving you open to introspection – and revelation. 

Dan Q. Dao is a culture and travel writer who splits his time between Ho Chi Minh and New York City. His work can be found in the New York Times, Condé Nast Traveler, GQ, Paper, and more. Beyond writing, he's the founder of District One Studios, a NYC-based media consultancy for food and drink brands.

Based in New York, photographer Andrew Jacobs creates fashion imagery imbued with the powerful simplicity of colour and light. Spending his childhood in South Africa, Andrew moved to the United States as a teenager and later earned a degree in journalism before choosing to pursue photography. Alongside commissions, Andrew particularly enjoys travelling for personal work and developing his long-term interest in documentary photography.