1. I arrived in Dan Hoa one morning while the forest was still half-asleep. The red dirt road silently wound along the mountainside, the mist not yet completely dissipated, lingering beneath the old trees as if reluctant to leave. Occasionally, a light drizzle fell, making the red dirt road muddy and heavy underfoot. Old Man Ho Kham's stilt house in Pachoong village sat atop the hill, quietly amidst the vast expanse of reeds. That wooden house with a thatched roof remained unchanged since my visit more than 10 years ago. In the crisp, desolate air, a sound echoed, filtering through the gray window. Old Man Ho Kham sat by the small window, his eyes half-closed as if lost in the melodious tune of the music.
Old Man Ho Kham remains the same, only time has aged his face a little. But in his deep brown eyes, the passion has never diminished. This Khua man has spent almost his entire life with the Karong instrument. It is a musical instrument he crafted himself from bamboo tubes about three handspans long, with holes carved into the ends and the middle of the tube to create sound. At each end of the tube are two bamboo sticks to tie and adjust the strings. From this simple instrument arises a strange sound, rough but full of magic. The Karong can be played with a bow, plucked, or strummed on a long, fast-paced piece of music.
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| Old Man Ho Kham with his Karong instrument - Photo: DH |
It's a sound born from life itself. When happy, the old man plays the Karong for the forest to hear. When sad, he plays it for himself. On moonlit nights, the sound of the Karong is carried by the wind to the courtyard of the stilt house, blending with the laughter of children and the call-and-response songs of young men and women in the village. That sound is so profound that once remembered, it will be remembered for a long time. Like this morning, I stood listening to the old man play the Karong on a windy day. The Karong sound was slow, sinking and then rising again, like the breath of the mountains. At times, I couldn't distinguish between the sound of the Karong and the sound of the wind rustling through the reeds by the stream. Everything blended together, gentle like an ancient lullaby that the vast forest has whispered to people for generations.
At the foot of the Giang Man mountain range, the Chut and Bru-Van Kieu people of Dan Hoa commune still preserve many other distinctive sounds: the soaring sound of the flute each morning, the sound of the mouth organ calling out to lovers during festivals at night, the gentle lullabies sung by the fire, and the communal dances swirling to the rhythm of drums celebrating the new rice harvest. Each sound is a piece of life, a small story, contributing to a pristine harmony where nature plays the role of conductor. After much worry and anxiety, old Ho Kham can now feel a little happier as the younger generation in the village is enthusiastically embracing the Karong instrument. Many have learned to make and play the instrument, although they are sometimes distracted by the modern sounds that have flooded into the village.
The sounds of the mountains are not just intangible cultural heritage. They are a fragile thread connecting people to the mountains and forests, to themselves. And if that thread is broken, this space will fall silent in a truly sad way.
2. If music is the vessel for the soul, then the cuisine of Dan Hoa is the quiet stream of memories flowing through life. I still remember the feeling of sitting before a meal placed on a layer of green banana leaves, every dish simple yet hearty, as if it had just emerged from the forest in the mountains. The sticky rice cooked in the fields was fragrant and chewy, the grains brown and shiny, still retaining the scent of sun and wind. Boiled and stir-fried bamboo shoots, steamed stream fish mixed with forest leaves, had a sweet and delicate flavor, needing little added seasoning. "Chicken with roasted rice powder"—a signature dish of the local people—was made from roasted and finely ground rice powder, cooked together with marinated chicken. The dish was both rich and savory, and warm enough to entice people to linger longer by the fire.
The meals of the local people here are a distillation of the land and the forest. Behind each dish lies a story steeped in the flavors of the forest. Around the steaming meal, we are no longer guests, nor is there any distance between strangers and acquaintances. The flavors of the food spread, the wine warms our throats, but what lingers longer is the feeling of being accepted, shared with, and loved.
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| The cuisine is carefully prepared by the people of Dan Hoa highland region - Photo: DH |
I sat and ate with a Chứt family, listening to their stories about the stream, about raising free-range chickens around the house, about going into the forest to gather bamboo shoots and dig up roots. These stories flowed naturally with the rhythm of the meal, with the cheerful laughter of the young women sitting by the fire. It turned out that behind a warm meal on a windy day was a place to preserve memories, to connect people, and to tell each other about a slow, enduring way of life amidst the vast wilderness.
3. Leaving the campfire, I stepped out onto the veranda of the stilt house as evening fell over the Giang Man mountain range. Mist began to drift in from the forest. The red dirt road I had traveled that morning was now silent, only faint footprints and the earthy smell of the soil remained. Upstream, everything moved more slowly, allowing one to realize how peaceful and worthwhile life was here. That afternoon, I followed a villager to the edge of the Do-Ta Vong forest. The village was like a fairyland, with stilt houses nestled on the hilltop. A small stream meandered through gray rocks, its water so clear you could see the pebbles at the bottom. The May people of the village still preserve many precious legacies such as the land worship ceremony, the wrist-tying ceremony, the new rice offering ceremony, along with unique musical and singing traditions and distinctive cuisine .
Nestled in the Trường Sơn mountain range, Dân Hóa border commune holds many valuable resources: a well-preserved indigenous culture, cuisine closely tied to the mountains and forests, pristine nature, and a strategically important location. There, Highway 12A connects the lowlands with the Cha Lo International Border Gate, opening the gateway to neighboring Laos. However, unlike many other places, these advantages in Dân Hóa have not been fully exploited or showcased. They remain dormant, just as the local people have preserved the forest for generations, waiting to be "awakened" by tourism development.
But tourism development in this border region must begin with the local culture, with the music, the songs, the meals of the people, and the festivals and customs that nourish the spiritual life of the community. Tourism development is not just an economic problem, but also a story of preserving identity. How can we ensure that the people remain the masters of their living space, rather than becoming "actors" in their own villages? How can we teach the younger generation to welcome guests without forgetting the music, the dances, and the way of life of their ancestors? Ultimately, tourism, if done with kindness, will not diminish culture but will make its values even more enduring.
Late in the afternoon, as the last rays of sunlight faded behind the Giang Man mountain range, I stood watching Highway 12A stretching towards the border crossing. Vehicles continued their steady journey, carrying goods and people. One day, Dan Hoa will not just be a place people pass through, but a place they want to stop and stay. Stop to listen to a musical instrument, eat a hot meal, spend a night in the forest, and then wake up in a misty village.
Dieu Huong
Source: https://baoquangtri.vn/van-hoa/202512/ben-mai-giang-man-1100465/
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