I arrived at the "Echoes of Life" exhibition under a steady Saigon drizzle. The gallery was intimate and warm, bathed in soft amber lighting that cast a gentle glow over the photographs along the walls. Beside them, handcrafted Vietnamese embroidery pieces rested quietly, as if waiting for someone to recognize that they, too, hailed from the same remote highlands as the ancient tea trees in the photographs.
As the fragrance of freshly poured tea filled the small porcelain cups, the thousand-kilometer divide between the southern urban bustle and northern mountain ridges seemed to dissolve, drawing me into a world of towering, ancient trees that have quietly stood between earth and sky across five or six human lifetimes.
The 300-Year-Old Trees And Legendary Harvesters
Nguyễn Sơn Tùng shared that several Shan Tuyết tea trees in Hà Giang are well over three centuries old. Local villagers measure a tree's age in human lifespans. Entire families have lived alongside these trees across five or six generations, watching them thrive deep within the primeval forest.
In his photo series, tea trees rise through dense jungle canopies as rolling mists crest over mountain ridges. The silhouette of a woman carrying a woven back-basket glides through dewy foliage. Roosters and native black pigs wander across the homesteads, humble companions to the villagers and these ancient groves.
It is a world where humanity does not stand apart from nature. The tea tree is woven into daily life, inextricably linked to family livelihoods, customs, and folklore passed down through generations.
Tùng arrived in Hoàng Su Phì largely by chance. On his travels through Hà Giang, he deliberately avoided tourist hubs, choosing instead to wander off the beaten path in search of alternative perspectives. Along the way, he encountered these ancient tea trees and gradually immersed himself in the lives rooted around them.
There, Tùng heard local legends of monkeys once trained by highland villagers to scale dizzying heights, plucking the most tender tea leaves from precarious branches. That harvest was considered so rare and precious that locals only brewed it for one another. Selling it felt like parting with treasure; its price was difficult to define, sometimes quoted impossibly high simply to ensure it stayed within the family.
Remarkably, despite numerous expeditions to Hà Giang, Tùng himself never managed to taste this fabled brew. It remains shrouded in folklore. Yet amid the highland expanses of Hoàng Su Phì, such tea legends seem inexhaustible.
Tùng was long accustomed to the astringent, bitter profile typical of traditional Vietnamese household brews. Yet encountering Hoàng Su Phì’s Shan Tuyết opened his palate to an entirely different character: crisp, refreshing, and carrying a delicate natural sweetness, a marked departure from his daily cup.
That shift in appreciation likely stemmed from what he witnessed firsthand. Villagers harvest and pan-roast the leaves entirely by hand, tending scorching batches over open hearths. Behind a single cup of tea lie weathered hands, deep ancestral intuition, and a meticulous touch that drinkers rarely perceive when looking at the finished loose leaf alone.
Tùng’s personal favorite is Shan Tuyết black tea (hồng trà). Yet listening to his stories, it became clear that what held the photographer’s devotion went far beyond flavor. It was the vibrant ecosystem thriving around the trees, a world where time is measured in generations, and ancestral knowledge is seldom set down in writing.
The Trees Endure, But The Artisans May Not
Throughout his journeys in Hà Giang, Tùng noticed that even dead tea trees—no longer yielding leaves—were still revered, tended, and preserved by the locals. Yet the craft surrounding these ancient roots faces steady decline.
According to villagers, middlemen frequently buy raw tea leaves at cut-rate prices, making it increasingly difficult for artisans to sustain a livelihood. When backbreaking labor fails to yield viable income, holding onto the trade becomes an agonizing choice. While the trees can endure for centuries, the living knowledge and artisanal techniques survive only as long as there are hands willing to practice them.
That reality prompted Tùng to partner with Seina, a representative of Tinh, to realize the "Echoes of Life" exhibition. Those familiar with Tùng's portfolio know this project diverged from his usual artistic focus. Yet he embraced a new direction in the hope that these images might bring broader recognition to the artisans of Hà Giang. At times, an artist discovers creative renewal through a deeply humanistic purpose.
The collaboration with Seina proved meaningful because Tinh shares a genuine reverence for the narrative behind every harvest: the terroir where the tree flourishes, the artisans who process the leaf, and the heritage nurtured around it. In Tùng's eyes, Tinh is among the few purveyors capable of restoring Hà Giang tea to its rightful cultural and commercial value, placing it in the hands of those who truly appreciate it.
From the terraced slopes of Hoàng Su Phì to a gallery room in Saigon, Tùng’s photographs and Tinh’s tea tastings establish an essential dialogue between makers and connoisseurs. A photograph can compel a viewer to pause before a gnarled, centuries-old trunk; a cup of tea can awaken genuine curiosity about the land, its people, and the craft behind the brew. For this tradition to survive, its story must reach those willing to listen, taste, and care.
From Mountain Groves To A Rainy Afternoon in Saigon
"Echoes of Life" offered more than visual storytelling. Within the gallery space, Tinh introduced several artisanal varieties, such as Hà Giang white tea and jasmine green tea. I chose Dragon Claw tea (trà Móng Rồng). It carried a delicate, grassy, and floral brightness so vivid it seemed artificially scented, yet it was entirely pure, naturally aromatic, and sweet.
I wondered how many visitors had tasted Shan Tuyết before, or how many would seek to explore Hoàng Su Phì after stepping back into the city. But listening to the ambient conversations around me, tea was clearly more than a beverage. Guests were actively discussing flavor profiles, infusion methods, terroir nuances, and their own personal memories.
Perhaps that is how cultural heritage sustains its vitality. It does not always require rigid ceremonies or scholarly treatises. Sometimes, all it takes is a well-brewed cup to spark curiosity about where it came from.
My thoughts drifted back to those 300-year-old trees in Hà Giang. They have stood through five or six human generations, bearing witness to transitions that no single lifetime could recount. Oral tales endure, and skilled hands still roast leaves over firewood. Yet this centuries-old craft teeters on the edge of extinction if the communities behind it can no longer afford to sustain it.
A single exhibition cannot resolve that systemic challenge on its own. But it can initiate an encounter: between tea growers and urban drinkers, between remote mountain ridges and city youth, and between an ancient tree and someone seeing its silhouette for the very first time through a photograph.
