A Story About a Stormy Night, a Small Restaurant, and the People Who Keep Côn Đảo Alive

One stormy evening on Côn Đảo, when the wind pushed hard against the streets and rain fell in shimmering sheets, we found shelter in a small, warm restaurant called YinYang Foods & Balancing. Lanterns glowed softly through the rain-heavy air, woven lamps cast gentle shadows across the wooden tables, and the fragrance of herbs, broth, and simmering spices wrapped around us like a protective warmth.

Inside, everything felt calm—lush green plants, soft music, and the kind of peace that only exists in places where daily life is still closely tied to nature.

The restaurant was created by Chi and Marco—a Vietnamese wife and her German husband.

Chi (Yin) pours her love for traditional Vietnamese cuisine into every dish; Marco (Yang) brings creativity and balance with his cocktails and unique flavor combinations. Together, they have built something small but filled with soul.

As the storm raged outside that night, we were served warm, local dishes that tasted like stories passed down through generations. Their young son played quietly nearby, while Chi and Marco moved around the room with gentleness and care, making the place feel more like a home than a business.

At one moment, Chi approached our table with a humble smile and asked if we were happy with the food. Her voice was soft, sincere—genuine in a way that cannot be staged.

Soon after, as the rain tapped steadily on the roof, she opened up. Her words came slowly at first, then with a deep honesty shaped by years of watching her island change.

She told her story

:

“I was born and raised on this sacred land, known as the heavenly altar of the Vietnamese motherland.

My family is still living here. My maternal grandparents came to Côn Đảo in 1973, before the liberation of the South.

I love this land deeply—it is the place where I was born and raised.

And now, I am 45 years old, watching this beautiful, peaceful land being disturbed by money-hungry investors who want only profit from our homeland—this beloved island, especially the place where over 20,000 soldiers have fallen.

Why can they come here to do such things, disturbing the eternal rest of our heroes?

We, the people of Côn Đảo, just want a peaceful life. We don’t want people coming here to show off luxury. We just need calm, warmth, and stability.

It breaks my heart. Every day I see construction taking more land. Resorts rising. Coral reefs and beaches destroyed.

They even want to reclaim the sea to build a bigger runway and a golf course for the super-rich.

Vietnam is still poor. People struggle for daily meals. The super-rich are only a tiny part of society. We don’t need people like that taking over our island.

We don’t need luxurious resorts like in other developed places.

We should live by returning to peace, to love, to nature.

We need everyone to help protect this ruby island.

I am not good with words, but it hurts so much to see our efforts destroyed day by day.

Please, join hands to keep our place peaceful as before.

Dear investors, reconsider.

People now need love and kindness more than material things, don’t you think?”

Her voice didn’t shake. She wasn’t angry.

She spoke with the quiet sorrow of someone who has watched her home transformed without consent, and with the dignity of someone who still hopes it’s not too late.

Listening to her, as a Norwegian visitor far from home, it became impossible not to feel the weight of what she carried.

Her story was not just about development.

It was about identity, memory, sacred ground, and a way of life slipping away, piece by piece.

And in that small restaurant, surrounded by lantern light and storm winds, I understood something essential:

This is the Côn Đảo worth protecting.

Not the glossy resorts rising along the beaches.

Not the golf courses designed for the wealthy.

Not the runways reaching further into the sea.

But this:

The warm, humble places.

The families who hold the island’s traditions in their hands.

The quiet people like Chi, who love their land enough to speak even when it hurts.

Her story is not just hers.

It is the story of Côn Đảo.

The story of a place that deserves to remain whole, peaceful, and sacred.

And that is why I share it — so others may listen before everything that truly matters is gone.