Before the shopping malls, before the online sales, before the city streets grew quiet as millions departed, there was something else. In the old quarters of Hanoi, in the villages surrounding the ancient capital, the days after Tết brought a different kind of celebration. The hội chợ xuân—spring fairs—would spring up in empty fields, in temple courtyards, along village paths. They were temporary, ephemeral, here today and gone tomorrow. But for generations of Vietnamese, they were the soul of Tết made manifest.
Today, these traditional spring fairs have largely vanished. The few that remain are self-conscious revivals, tourist attractions, echoes of something that once was. But in the memories of the oldest generation, in the stories passed down from grandparents to grandchildren, the hội chợ xuân live on—a vanished world of games and performances, of trade and community, of Tết as it used to be.
The spring fair is as old as the Vietnamese village itself. After the intense, family-centered days of Tết—the offerings, the ancestor worship, the private celebrations—communities needed to come together. The fairs provided that opportunity. They were a release, a celebration, a chance for the entire village to gather before returning to the work of the new year.
Traditionally, the fairs were held on the grounds of the communal house—đình làng—the spiritual and social center of every Vietnamese village. The đình, with its ancient banyan tree, its well, its courtyard, provided the perfect setting. Stalls would be erected, games organized, performances scheduled. For a few precious days, the village became a world unto itself, a self-contained universe of joy and commerce and connection.
The games of the spring fair were gloriously simple. No electricity required, no expensive equipment, no complicated rules. Just skill, luck, and the joy of play.
The throwing of cloth balls through a high ring. Young men and women would form teams, their throws expressing interest, flirtation, hope. A successful throw was not just skill; it was destiny.
The fairy swing—a towering bamboo structure from which young women would swing, their colorful dresses streaming behind them. The higher they swung, the more luck they brought to the village.
Kite flying, but not as we know it. The kites were huge, often fitted with bamboo flutes that sang in the wind. The sky filled with music and color, a prayer carried upward.
A traditional wrestling match, but often played with a heavy wooden ball. Teams would compete to carry the ball to their goal, a game of strength and strategy that drew the whole village as audience.
Blind man’s buff, but with a Vietnamese twist. The blindfolded player tries to catch others, who tease and taunt. Children’s laughter filled the fairgrounds.
Chess, but played with giant pieces on boards painted on the ground. Old men would spend hours contemplating their moves, the game as much performance as competition.
The spring fair was also the place where young people met. In a society where marriages were often arranged, the fair offered rare opportunities for young men and women to see each other, to interact, to fall in love.
Many a village romance began at the spring fair. Many a marriage was decided by a well-aimed throw, a shared song, a moment of eye contact across the crowded fairgrounds. The fairs were not only for children; they were for the future of the village itself.
No spring fair was complete without performances. Troupes of traveling players would set up temporary stages, their colorful banners announcing their arrival. The whole village would gather to watch.
Traditional Vietnamese opera, with its stock characters and moral tales. The audience knew every story but watched anyway, caught up in the performance, the music, the shared experience.
Water puppetry, that most Vietnamese of art forms. The puppets danced on the surface of a pond, their movements reflected in the water, their stories as old as the rice fields.
Blind musicians would sing of love and loss, their songs accompanied by simple instruments. Their presence reminded the village of those less fortunate, of the need for compassion.
The lion dance, of course, was part of every fair. The lion would process through the crowds, blessing all it passed, its drumbeat the heartbeat of the celebration.
“I remember watching hát chèo as a child, sitting on my father’s shoulders because I could not see over the crowd. The music, the colors, the laughter of the audience—it was magic. I did not understand the stories, not really. But I understood that I was part of something, that the whole village was sharing this moment together. That feeling never left me.”
The spring fair was also a feast for the palate. Food stalls lined the paths, their offerings simple but irresistible.
The food was not complicated. It was the food of the people—simple, affordable, satisfying. Children spent their lucky money on sweets; adults shared snacks as they chatted. The fair was a place to eat together, to taste the new year, to savor the simple pleasures of community.
The spring fair was also a market—but a market of a special kind. Farmers sold produce they had saved for the occasion. Artisans displayed their crafts. Families traded goods they had made over the winter. The fair was an economy, yes, but an economy embedded in social relationships, in community bonds, in the rhythm of village life.
A farmer from one village might trade rice for pottery from another. A young woman might sell embroidered cloth to save for her dowry. A child might spend his lucky money on a toy he had coveted all year. The transactions were not anonymous; they were part of the fabric of community, exchanges between people who knew each other, who would see each other again at the next fair, who were bound together by more than commerce.
In a society where people lived in dispersed villages, separated by rice fields and distance, the spring fair was essential social glue. It brought together not only the residents of a single village but people from surrounding communities. News was exchanged. Marriages were arranged. Alliances were formed. The fair was a node in a network of relationships that held rural society together.
For children, the fair was a glimpse of a wider world. They met children from other villages, saw things they had never seen, tasted foods they had never tasted. The fair expanded their horizons, planted seeds of curiosity that might one day lead them beyond the village.
“The spring fair was the village’s gift to itself. It cost nothing to enter, required nothing of anyone but presence. For a few days, the ordinary rules of life were suspended. Work stopped. Play began. And the village, for a brief moment, became exactly what it hoped to be: a community bound by joy.”
In Hanoi itself, the spring fairs had their own character. The most famous was the fair at Đống Đa Mound, held on the fifth day of Tết to commemorate the victory of Quang Trung over the Chinese in 1789. Thousands would gather to watch performances, eat street food, and remember the nation’s history.
Another beloved fair was held at the Voi Phục Temple, where elephant statues guarded the grounds and children rode on wooden elephants carved for the occasion. The fair at the West Lake drew crowds with its boat races and floating performances.
These urban fairs were more commercial, more diverse, more crowded than their village counterparts. But they served the same essential function: bringing people together, creating community, celebrating the new year.
The traditional spring fairs began to decline in the mid-20th century. War disrupted village life. Urbanization drew people to the cities. Modern entertainment—cinema, television, eventually the internet—offered alternatives to the simple pleasures of the fair.
Today, the hội chợ xuân of old Hanoi are largely gone. A few have been revived as tourist attractions, but they lack the authenticity, the spontaneity, the community-generated energy of the originals. The fairs that once defined Tết for generations of Vietnamese now exist only in memory, in photographs, in the stories told by the oldest villagers.
Yet not all is lost. In some rural areas, the spring fair survives. In villages far from the cities, where tradition still holds sway, the fair still appears each year. The games are simpler, the crowds smaller, but the spirit remains.
And in recent years, there have been efforts to revive the tradition. Cultural organizations sponsor fairs that recreate the old ways. Schools bring children to experience what their grandparents remember. The fairs may not be what they once were, but they are not dead—not yet.
For those who remember, the spring fairs live on in vivid detail. The smell of bánh đúc steaming in its banana leaf wrapper. The sound of the đu tiên’s ropes creaking as young women swung toward the sky. The feel of a kite string in the hand, tugging as the wind caught. The taste of sugarcane juice, sweet and cold, on a warm afternoon.
These memories are precious, irreplaceable. They connect the present to a past that is slipping away, a Vietnam that no longer exists except in the minds of those who lived it. The spring fairs of old Hanoi are gone, but in the stories told by grandparents to grandchildren, they live on—a gift from the past to the future, a reminder of what Tết once meant, a promise that joy, community, and connection are possible.
Perhaps, in the end, the spring fair was never only a place. Perhaps it was also a state of mind—a willingness to pause, to play, to be together. If that is true, then the fair is not entirely lost. It can be recreated, anywhere, anytime, by anyone who understands its essence.
A family gathering, with games and laughter. A community potluck, with food shared and stories told. A street festival, with music and dancing. These are the spring fairs of our own time, different in form but not in spirit from those of old Hanoi.
The hội chợ xuân may have vanished, but the impulse that created them remains. And as long as Vietnamese people gather to celebrate, to play, to be together, the spring fair lives on.
