Call me depressed. Some years ago—never mind how many trips I’ve taken or how old I’ve grown—I found myself, despite a lifelong aversion to setting foot in northern Vietnam, camera in hand, threading the dirt paths, verdant rice paddies, and varied homescapes that define that ancient land. I had convinced myself that venturing into once-forbidden territory might break the lingering chains of a pandemic’s weight. Immersing myself in unfamiliar waters, I thought, could keep me afloat.

Whenever I find myself involuntarily perusing coffin shops or trailing behind funeral processions, and especially whenever my hypos gain such an upper hand on me that it takes a strong moral principle to keep from flipping off strangers in passing cars, I know it is time to pull a camera from the shelf. Photography is my substitute for seppuku, a more painful (and permanent) act of release. During the Covid lockdown, sadness seeped into every unseen corner. But unlike Cato, who cast himself upon a sword with dramatic flair, I, without ceremony, hefted my poor man’s Leica in search of renewal.

There is nothing remarkable in this. Nearly all architects—in one way or another, at some point in life—harbor the same feelings toward photography as I do. Designers frame the world to reframe themselves. A camera is a balm to smooth life’s wrinkles; indeed, there is much to iron out. As shapers of the built environment, we see ourselves as the cornerstone of humanity’s existence. As erstwhile despoilers of Nature, we take it upon ourselves to save her. As artists, we make architecture harmonious and beautiful. Call our guiding spirit, Ahab.

Alas, Ahab has become vengeful. He curses like a sailor at the alchemists heating the Earth. He bellows at the xenophobia and revanchism tearing our communities asunder. A demon spirit, unfathomable and implacable, lurks below the surface. The leviathan’s shadow swirls endlessly, looping and twisting, poised to emerge and swallow us whole.

Call the monster, Möbius.

Under such circumstances, one might rightfully question what comfort is found in a viewfinder. The answer: clarity. Architects may use their cameras—small and fragile spyglasses, really—to sight our captain’s nemesis on the horizon, allowing him to stalk the beast. By reason of this, a focus on Vietnam seemed natural. If ever a nation had been consumed by a whale of woe, it was this one. What might I find by traveling there? What revelations would I discover in its people? I booked a trip, anticipating that the great floodgates of wonder would swing open and reveal their secrets. On Thanksgiving Eve 2022, my wife and I took flight from Houston to Dallas to Tokyo to Hà Nội.

We were met at Nội Bài International by Alex, an Englishman of keen eye, proprietor of Vietnam in Focus Photo Tours, and Adrien, a French photographer, as much a fixture in the country as the rain itself. Each had found in this exotic domain not only a place, but a home. Bound by marriages that tethered their European identities to local wives, they had let the country in—and it, them.

The evening of our arrival, after plates of Italian pasta (of all things), we pored over the itinerary of a 10-day sojourn. Our journey would take us around the Hà Giang loop to an area called Mèo Vạc, just south of the China border. After Quản Bạ, we’d motor to Du Già, and then to Yên Bái, before returning to Hà Nội.

By morning’s light, my wife, Adrien, and I boarded a sleek Mercedes van—the Pequod of our enterprise—ably helmed by a Mr. Tiep. With the ever-watchful Mr. Vn as translator and guide, we set forth toward the great, misty north. Hours later, we arrived in Nậm Đăm, home of one Mr. Dong, where we stayed the night.

We awoke among crowing roosters and Dao Đỏ (Red Dzao). Guardians of customs as resilient as the houses they dwell within, the Dao Đỏ have held fast since the 13th century. A branch now of the Yao kin, their migrations flowed like rivers through the high passes of old China. The tribe is marked by the iron-rich clay essence woven into their headscarves and dyed into garments, each stitch a declaration of cultural memory. Mr. Vn explained that to walk among these people is to experience a distant past that thrives in the present. Agriculture anchors their days, but their mastery of medicinal herbs makes them a beacon to those seeking nature’s cures.

At breakfast, we dined alongside another homestay guest. Mr. Nguyen was an elderly man traveling from Lạng Sơn. Of slight frame but strong presence, he knew instantly I was American. Leaning into me, he said in practiced English, “When the French returned after the war, we buried our knives in the ground to show them peace.” Settling back in his chair, he continued, “When your countrymen came, we buried our children to show them loss.” Hoisting his cane to the sky, he proclaimed, “When your bombs fell, there was no one to show.” 

I responded with silence. 

Nguyen excused himself to hobble back to his room, but not before leaving me with this: “Of course, that was a long time ago.”

That sinking feeling returned. 

The following morning, I took an unsettled walk with our hosts through the Dao Đỏ village, Adrien finding vistas and points of interest to photograph, myself lost in thought. As Mr. Vn and my wife discussed the wild banana trees growing along the road, I asked Adrien if he’d encountered resentment during his years in the country. He thought for a while before shaking his head, no.

To my camera’s eye, the Dao Đỏ live as simply as the mountains will have it and as enduringly as the earth with which they build. Our cottage was a feat of practicality and strength. Constructed by compacting layers of earth into molds—a patient labor that produces thick, resilient walls—the Dao Đỏ live shielded against the chill of the winter highlands and the searing heat of summer. Each structure, a joint effort by hands across the community, stands low, grounded, yet strong enough to outlast generations.

In the evening, after dinner, we were treated to a traditional foot bath of local herbs known for their curative and soothing properties. During our next breakfast, Mr. Nguyen educated me on his people’s history, one of unimaginable endurance. Peaceful cultivators of rice and curers of ailment, the Dao Đỏ had found themselves caught in the 19th and 20th centuries between forces uninterested in their simple, rooted existence. He had little recollection of World War II, forgetting even what his parents looked like before Japanese troops executed them. His memory of French colonial rule was sharp, however, and of the American intervention, vivid. U.S. forces struck the Dao Đỏ on more than one occasion—not by intention, Mr. Nguyen conceded, but by circumstance: a hammer smashing where no nail had ever been driven. Fire rained from the skies, scattering families, unrooting fields, and leaving villagers to wander in aftershock. In Nguyen’s eyes I saw misery, but also a soul unbowed. He was proud of how his people returned to the rugged soil that held their ancestry. Drawn from memory’s depths, they rebuilt every house, every footpath, every furrow in the soil. 

We checked out and motored on, skirting the Chinese border at Ma Pi Lèng Pass, a mighty gorge, vast with jagged peaks that soar like the teeth of some wounded colossus. Our road clung precariously to the cliffside, past the crumbled remnants of former French military battlements. The relics of war crouched above us, their apertures brooding and watchful as if still guarding a dominion with a sniper’s vigilance. 

Out came my camera.

The Hà Giang Loop is not a road, but an endless path. Around and around it goes, one side becoming the other. There is no end to the spiral, no beginning. It is infinity embodied, but also something else. From Quản Bạ to Du Già to Mèo Vạc, for reasons I did not understand, I felt as if I had seen it all before: every cliff, every bend, every misty peak. It was both familiar and not familiar, like someone else’s dream I’d walked into after dreaming it myself.

Higher we climbed, drawn ever upward by the twisting route that carved its sinuous way into the verdant embrace of the hills around Hà Giang province. The land of Yên Minh is lush and forested, a haven where we paused to partake of a modest repast. We needed the nourishment, for the day had a trial in store. The afternoon demanded we scale on foot a steep ascent to a plateau unlike any other—a realm of stark and unearthly beauty, where volcanic rock and scattered boulders lay like the petrified scales of an ancient serpent.

I snapped away.

Onward we pressed, the fantastical unfolding before us. The road wound through landscapes so strange that they seemed to teeter between real and unreal, leading us at last to the picturesque villages of Mèo Vạc. The charm of these settlements, nestled against the stern wilderness, was not lost on me, yet we tarried briefly, as the day’s journey was incomplete. Miles on, we came to our evening’s destination, a sanctuary amid the rugged vastness. 

It was a Mông Đen (Black Hmong) homestead, lovingly restored and christened Auberge de Mèo Vạc. Here, beneath its venerable roof, was safe harbor for the weary. Within its historic walls was a mélange of tired motorcyclists from southern Vietnam, China, Europe, and the U.S.

Among the group was a Vietnamese man, Mr. Ban, who I surmised to be half my age. Through his broken English, we talked and toasted the night away. After sufficient alcohol, I worked up the nerve to ask him what lay heavy on my mind: “What do you think of Americans visiting your country today? Tens of thousands of your people died under our bombs. Surely, you must hate us.”

I braced myself, expecting his answer to drag me deeper into despair. Instead, Mr. Ban looked at me in surprise, then wagged a finger to my nose. “Not hate. We understand why you did what you did.” 

My eyes grew wide.

“You thought you were helping a friend.” Mr. Ban took a final swig of beer and patted my shoulder. “Americans did not come to conquer like the others.” He pointed north and said, “First, it was the Chinese.” Rotating west, he continued, “Then the French.” Looking east, “After them, Japan.” Returning west, “France, again …” Mr. Ban frowned as his voice trailed off. Pointing yet again to the north, he appeared to want to say something, but didn’t. He simply shook my hand and bid me good night.

We dressed the following morning, primed for another trek. Mèo Vạc’s tribal market stirs with life as the first breath of dawn scarcely brushes the sky. Mr. Vn detailed how ethnic peoples from surrounding highlands, wearing all manner of dress and color, descend, emerging from their scattered villages like honeybees spilling from a flowered mountainside. Mông, Dao, Tày, Giáy, and Lô Lô tread down the circuitous paths to the outdoor market on foot, bike, and motorcycle, their burdens heavy, yet their hearts light. My camera recorded a hubbub of trade in livestock, bright-hued textiles, and rich fruits, scenes that were not merely mercantile—the bazaar was a well-knit tapestry of cultures.

Or so I thought.

Suddenly, amid the clamor of hawkers, I beheld two men, one Dao Đỏ, the other Mông, locked in a quarrel near a stockyard fence. Their faces grew fierce. Their voices surged like opposing waves in a storm, cresting into shouts, brows knotted with tempestuous conviction. Between them, a cow, dull-eyed and oblivious, tugged lazily at its rope in the hand of one of the men as if it alone knew the futility of human rage. My breath stopped, for their arms cut the air like knives, and I feared soon one might swing.

I am lost at sea again, I thought to myself. 

We moved quickly past them, swimming upstream through the crowd, only to circle back a while later and find the two crouched as brothers, low upon worn stools, faces flushed with rice wine’s warmth. The cow stood docile, now tethered to the other man but untroubled, an animal content with its lot. The men drank together, laughter bubbling like fresh spring water, the storm forgotten.

The market buzzed again with chatter, gossip, and the earthy aroma of steaming breakfasts. In a corner of a stall, a sweet child sang into a microphone in what sounded like the entire community singing in a single voice. 

I snapped her photo.

By afternoon, our course took us back toward the colossal chasm that is Ma Pi Lèng, the staggering gorge whose depths we first saw from above. In my mind, it was a blowhole from some vast lungs below, the volcanic boulders on the plateau scars of a slumbering sea creature. Tiny Mông villages, clinging tenuously to the mountainsides, appeared frail in the giant’s presence, magnifying the enormity of the wilderness. In any dialogue between Man and Nature, I concluded our existence was a mere whisper.

Returning from those solemn heights, we arrived at the Black Mông Kings’ palace at Sà Phìn, perched as if by design to dominate the forest. It was there, amid the echoes of the past and the unyielding strength of the mountains, that Möbius finally surfaced.

The 100-year-old building is a mixture of Mông, Chinese, and French architecture. Narrow passageways twist and wind like a labyrinth, a cunning snare to disorient and entrap. Twin watchtowers stand ever vigilant, their narrow gunports slitted against the sky. From their lofty height, I imagined unseen eyes peering eagle-like into the distant valleys, marking every movement of the encroaching world. The palace’s gates are no mere apertures, but jaws wrought to consume any who might dare to breach their threshold. Even the courtyard, the heart of this architecture, beat with the rhythm of a fortress. The Mông Kings’ palace does not stand; it looms.

Roaming the second floor of that somber structure, its monochrome stone walls and floors lending it the air of a citadel more than a dwelling, I felt as though I walked the corridors of a stronghold lost to time. The heavy gloom of its black walls, darkened beams, and mossy tile roof cast an oppressive shroud over the place, the very bones of its structure a cage. I pitied those who had succumbed here, peacefully or otherwise. In sympathy with my mood, it began to rain. 

Then, an apparition.

A woman emerged in sudden brilliance, radiant against the gray gloom. Her garment, the scarlet of wild fruit and sunlit clay, caught a sliver of sunlight and took possession.

I took her picture. 

Immediately, she spiraled and twisted through a door. I followed her through rooms like a question chasing an answer. 

Where did she go? 

Ah! There, perched on a windowsill across the courtyard from me, arrived as if borne by the very light she carried. I centered the vision in my frame.

Snap.

With a fluid motion, she descended into the courtyard, seemingly ending the downpour. Within a gaping plaza framed by massive walls, she danced. Her movements were delicate and fluid, continuous and twisting. One side of her became the other as each motion folded into the next. In a sudden move, she looked up and saw me—and stopped.

Her eyes met mine with the force of an undertow. I could not look away. She knew what I wanted to know.

The woman raised her arms to swirl again, twisting and twisting and twisting, the fabric of her clothes flowing like a river with no source and no end. On every other turn, she would pause and study me. 

Her eyes were unblinking. Her eyes were the Leviathan’s eyes. I pressed the shutter.

She froze once more, and for a long moment, neither of us moved. Her stare was sharp and calm, reminding me of the ocean’s stillness before the storm. A smile arose from her lips—not out of kindness, I suspected, but what? What could she be thinking?

And then I understood. Her smile was not for me; it was meant for Ahab.

I lowered my head. My voyage was over. The camera slid from my shoulder like a harpoon gone slack. 

The journey back to Hà Nội was quiet. A thousand fleeting images passed beyond the window, but I no longer needed them. Ahab had found his Möbius, I told myself, and laid down his spear.

Featured photographs by the author.