Typhoon Turmoil: Vietnam’s Buoyancy in Flood Season

The first typhoon hit a week after my boyfriend and I arrived in Central Vietnam. The air was thick, the sea restless, and locals were already piling sandbags in front of their doorways. Soon after we settled into our new home in the city of Da Nang, storm after storm began to sweep through, each more relentless than the last. Da Nang sits directly in the path of where swirling air currents converge in the eastern sea to generate some of the world’s worst typhoons to make landfall every year. We did not know this when we came to Vietnam, and we were in for a wet surprise.

As a former humanitarian architect who once designed disaster-resilient structures across Southeast Asia, I was used to studying climate crises from afar - through case studies and resilience frameworks. But this time, I was living inside one.

Warning Signs and Water Lines

Vietnam has one of the most sophisticated early-warning systems for typhoons in Asia, but what impressed me most wasn’t the technology - it was the choreography.

Hours before each storm, people moved with graceful, unspoken rhythm: taping windows, stacking furniture, sheltering animals, and checking on elderly neighbors. There was no chaos, only calm determination.

A woman flashes a “peace” as her partner ties their belongings to their fishing boat before typhoon Bualoi in late September

Then the torrents of rains came, blurring the world into shades of gray. Power lines snapped and rivers surged… yet even in the darkest hours, there was laughter.

After every deluge, neighbors emerged barefoot into the mud, sweeping debris, hauling supplies, and sharing rice wine on the streets in front of their homes. It’s not resignation. It’s resilience - a philosophy of coexistence with nature.

Hue Before the Flood

Weeks later, in an effort to escape the dark days in Da Nang, my partner and I traveled north to Hue, Vietnam’s imperial city - a place of temples, moats, and graceful symmetry. I photographed its ancient walls and incense-filled courtyards just a day before the heaviest rainfall in its recent history began.

Vietnamese woman in traditional clothes at the entrance gate of the ancient city of Hue

By morning, the Perfume River had transformed into a rushing brown current, spilling over its banks. Bridges disappeared. Ornate pagoda rooftops reflected in floodwater.

Thinking it was time to get outta there and back home, we narrowly escaped as the city submerged, watching the waters rise through the windows of our taxi. But my thoughts lingered with those who stayed behind. Local volunteers and military workers shuttling families in boats between neighborhoods, taking their belongings to higher ground. This flood was not typical - it was a sign of a changing environment becoming more and more hostile to its inhabitants..

I kept thinking to myself: this theoretical concept of resilience from my university studies was coming to life before my eyes. It was community-led climate adaptation in real time. It was jarring, to say the least.

Wading Through Hoi An

When I returned south, the ancient fishing village and UNESCO Heritage site of Hoi An had become a network of canals. Locals floated through streets on fishing tubs and stand-up paddle boards. The iconic yellow buildings of the Old Town shimmered under a film of brown water.

I took my camera and waded thigh-deep through narrow alleys, documenting quiet acts of endurance: families salvaging soaked furniture, volunteers delivering food, children splashing around and picking up debris. “What is your name?” a group of kids recited their English words in unison as they splashed past me, all smiles. As I slowly shuffled through the warm brown floodwaters, I was greeted by a young man who introduced himself as Henry. I asked him how he and his family are doing. “It’s been a long night,” he told me. “We have been delivering water and food to my house” (he gestured to his foam surf board floating behind him piled with goods). “But we are ok!” he finished with a fist pump in the air. 

A family works together to deliver goods to houses deep into the flood zones using paddle boards.

In the midst of what the news calls catastrophe, life and its joys keep going. As a documentary photographer, I wasn’t just capturing disaster - I was witnessing an ancient rhythm of response, recovery, and renewal.

Reflections from the Floodwaters

For two months, our daily life revolved around the weather. I learned to gauge rainfall by the look of clouds on the sea’s horizon, to stock up on essentials before the storms came, to dry laundry inside under the ceiling fan since we had no sun.

But more importantly, I learned something profound about resilience and humility.

True resilience isn’t resistance - it’s adaptability. The people of Central Vietnam don’t fight the storms; they move with them. Their strength lies in their ability to respond and rebuild with grace and humor, again and again.

In humanitarian work, resilience is often measured in infrastructure or aid metrics. But what sustains communities here is something intangible: it’s care. It’s the invisible architecture of relationships, and the networks of trust that hold people together when everything else collapses.

My rainy season in this country is ending now. Vietnam taught me that every region has its own language of resilience. Sometimes it’s practical, like sandbags and drainage canals. Sometimes it’s emotional, like humor, hospitality, and patience. Together, they mean survival through crisis.

Everywhere I go, I meet people whose lives are shaped - not defined - by the environment.

In Central Vietnam, I saw that storms don’t only destroy; they also reveal what holds us together. The true measure of resilience isn’t in how we resist nature, but in how we rise, rebuild, and keep laughing under heavy skies.

Children splash and play in the floodwaters on a residential street in Hoi An

The Next Chapter: From Storms to Mountains

When the monsoon loosened its grip for a few days, the rivers calmed and life emerged again. The storm season is not over yet, but it is time for me to move on.

In recent years I have been asking myself the following questions: How do cultures preserve joy in the face of loss? How do traditional practices and architecture evolve to meet modern climate realities? What can we learn from communities that have lived with nature’s extremes for generations?

Those questions are leading me next to Northeast India, where my partner and I will document tribal communities and their relationship to land, ritual, and resilience.

From Vietnam’s flooded deltas to India’s remote highlands, my journey continues - tracing humanity’s enduring dialogue with the natural world. Let’s see what adventures come out of this next leap… stay tuned for more field notes!

My boyfriend Harrie and me with some new friends we met at Hue ancient citadel