After a typhoon devastated Vietnam’s south-central coast, Zannier Bãi San Hô was rebuilt through a remarkable community effort – to tell a story of resilience and renewal.
In November 2025, Typhoon Kalmaegi barrelled across the South China Sea, making landfall on Vietnam’s south-central coast. Directly in its path was Zannier Bãi San Hô, the sprawling 98-hectare beachfront resort. In the aftermath, the resort closed. A five-month clean-up and rebuild ensued, and with it the slow regeneration of the semi-arid coastal landscape.
Experience regional Vietnamese dining at the resort. (Credit: Zannier Hotels)
Here, rocky cliffs tumble into bone-white beaches, shimmering lagoons and fishing villages where boats have come and gone for centuries. I travel with my family by road from Quy Nhon – the final resting place of the poet Hàn Mặc Tử‚ and home to the 11th-century Banh It Cham towers – past scatterings of bonsai nurseries and carts peddling syrupy Vietnamese coffee and fragrant chargrilled pork.
Wildlife has returned after the natural disaster. (Credit: Amber Hunter)
Further south, these vibrant scenes begin to fracture. In Song Cua village, on the fringes of the resort, daily life carries on around uprooted trees, eroding soil, damaged roads and rubble. But it’s only when we arrive at Zannier Bãi San Hô, meaning the Bay of Corals, on a narrow, storm-battered peninsula, that the typhoon’s impact sinks in.
The devastating aftermath of Typhoon Kalmaegi
Calm after the storm – the restored resort is back in business. (Credit: Amber Hunter)
Thach Ngoc Thạc, a young staff member who goes by Tony, recalls watching the storm from the lobby as its eye unfurled against the shore, tearing terracotta roof tiles away and buckling buildings. Relentless rain followed.
From the balcony of our Hill Pool Villa, we overlook rice paddies lined with serene, stilted terrace villas. During the storm, the sea rose with such ferocity that it swallowed these fields like a lake. When the water eventually receded, life returned.
I have come to witness what it takes to restore a place like this, which is a livelihood for many in the local community. Over the coming days, I come to understand the human resilience and optimism that can surface in the wake of a natural disaster.
Time to kick back. (Credit: Amber Hunter)
At dawn, we watch fishermen haul their nets into round boats offshore in the glistening bay. Then the bustle begins. By first light 200 people have arrived for work, carrying weather-beaten nón lá (Vietnamese leaf hats) and bottles of iced water, tools slung over their shoulders.
On our morning walk, we quickly learn to hug the edge of the narrow road as brightly coloured tuk-tuks whir past, piled high with bricks, bamboo and bundles of palm thatching. Each day follows a similar rhythm as craftspeople from nearby villages return to reconstruct the resort.
A community effort: rebuilding Zannier Bãi San Hô
Local craftspeople help with the reconstruction after Typhoon Kalmaegi. (Credit: Amber Hunter)
Of the 180 staff at Zannier Bãi San Hô, 177 are local – many from the surrounding fishing villages that bore the brunt of the storm. Nguyễn Thị My Linh, who oversees Làng Chài, the resort’s beachfront restaurant, is from nearby Hoa Hoi village in the Xuan Canh commune.
“I was born and raised here," she tells me proudly. “It was the first time I experienced a storm like it." The typhoon tore the roof from her home and damaged her family’s convenience store. It also destroyed Làng Chài. Rebuilt on the same footprint, the restaurant once again faces the sea, serving fresh-caught lobster pulled from this bay.
Service at the resort is now fully restored. (Credit: Amber Hunter)
One evening as the moon rises, shining like silk on the ocean, music punctures the usually still night. It drifts in waves over the valley and returns each night for days. Guest assistant Lê Hoàng Khánh Linh explains it is the Nghinh Ông, or the Whale Worshipping Festival. “Local fishermen believe that whales are guardians of the sea," she says, “protecting them from storms and dangers."
According to ancient Cham folklore, when a whale dies and washes ashore, it’s buried in a sacred whale temple. Held after the Lunar New Year, villagers gather to honour the whale’s spirit through rituals, offerings and colourful processions. These fishermen, who sing to the sea for safe passage and a bountiful catch, are the same people whose homes and communities bore the wrath of the ocean. Like the resort, they’re intent on rising again.
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Life returns to the coast of Vietnam
The ocean is sacred for both life and livelihoods. (Credit: Amber Hunter)
On our last day, the whooping of two bronze coucals echo in duet. White eastern cattle egrets take flight over the knee-high rice paddies, and an ocean breeze gently sways the fringes of newly planted palms.
Part of the resort’s landscaping team, Mister Ðàn Nguyễn emerges from the shadow of Bà Hai, the towering Bahnar rong house, carrying a plump papaya in weathered, soil-covered hands. He moves through the garden with the ease of someone who has worked this land for over a decade, gesturing towards orchids sprouting from hanging coconuts and tangled tomato vines while crushing Thai basil leaves between his fingers, their liquorice-sweet scent drifting through the air.
Its rice paddies are being regenerated after the storm and subsequent flooding. (Credit: Amber Hunter)
By the time the resort reopened in April 2026, nearly 23,500 trees and shrubs had been replanted by hand, and the beach – stretching about a kilometre – had been rebuilt. That night, while boats raise lobster pots under the moonlight, the singing comes again – fishermen and their communities calling to the same sea.
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After youth-led protests in 2025, this year Nepal elected a 35-year-old former rapper as Prime Minister. In a country where tourism is its biggest industry, what’s next for travellers?
In 1986, Nepal changed its clock. It had used India Standard Time since 1920 so, to differentiate, it wound its clock 15 minutes ahead of, not behind, its big-brother neighbour. Boss move. “Nepal is strongly opposed to the idea that our identity is connected to India,” says Community Homestay Network (CHN) guide Bikal Khanal.
Tharu dance is traditionally set to hand drums. (Credit: Kate Lewis)
Today, Nepal is the only independent country with a 45-minute deviation to universal time; an oddity that’s become a symbol of national pride. The quirk is nearly as endearing as Kathmandu’s Tribhuvan airport where carved varnished wood and shiny red bricks rule. One sign points to a ‘Travelator’ and another to a ‘Grievance Handling Desk’ while visas are noisily stamped at customs for US dollars, cash only. When am I?
Spot the endemic Nepal gray langur. (Credit: Simon Urwin)
The 15 or 45 minute anomaly sees me tap out completely on timezone calculations. Why bend my brain calculating if it’s quarter to or quarter past elsewhere when I’m in the honking here and now of Kathmandu where the air is high-altitude crisp, the prayer flags flutter and the street dogs howl?
How tourism is changing in Nepal
Bardiya National Park is rich with wildlife. (Credit: Simon Urwin)
India is not the only association many Nepalis would like to shake. With eight of the world’s 10 tallest mountains, including Mount Everest and Annapurna, Nepal has long attracted mountaineers and trekkers, and expedition numbers are continuing to rise.
Tourism is one of the country’s biggest sources of foreign currency, so this growth is not negative, per se. But according to Ang Tshering Lama, who co-founded Phaplu Mountain Bike Club, being reduced to a mere trekking destination is limiting.
“Trekking is just one layer of our identity,” says Ang. “When it becomes the dominant narrative, it limits how we’re seen and how we see ourselves.” Nepal’s recent success, however, in diverting trekkers to less-trafficked areas such as Manaslu mofuntain, where visitor numbers rose by 117 per cent last year, offers hope that tourism can diversify even more radically.
Local men in Bhada village. (Credit: Simon Urwin)
The founder of CHN, Shiva Dhakal, wants that change. “The whole idea of the Community Homestay Network is to promote experiences outside of trekking,” he says. “Community tourism changes lives and helps kids stay home instead of coming to the city or migrating to the Middle East.”
Ang grew up seeing people leave, “not because they wanted to but because there weren’t enough opportunities to stay”, he states. Yet from remote villages to living traditions; food, art, music and emerging subcultures, “there’s so much that’s not being seen.”
CHN is opening some of those doors. It doesn’t own, or fund, any homes. Rather, it promotes homestays to travellers on a single, slick platform, while fostering entrepreneurship in places where women, marginalised castes, Indigenous people and the youth stand to benefit the most.
A new generation demanding more
Dalla Town Hall, where volunteers discuss anti-poaching tactics. (Credit: Bheem Thapa)
The future prospects of next-gen Nepalis can no longer be ignored. On a Kathmandu tour with 33-year-old guide Monica K.C, we pass buildings torched in the September 2025 ‘Gen Z protests’, including the Supreme Court and Parliament House. Seventy-two people died. “They were anti-corruption protests,” says Monica. “Politicians’ children are living a lavish life but the airports are crowded with youngsters leaving to find work.”
We stop in ‘little Tibet’ at the wondrous sixth-century Boudha Stupa. “The wheel of life is Buddhism in a nutshell,” says Monica. “Things such as hate, ignorance and anger keep you rotating around the wheel, so you must follow the principles of Buddhism to detach. If you can’t, there’s no nirvana for you.”
Boudha Stupa’s prayer wheels are used to recite Buddhist prayers. (Credit: Kate Lewis)
In a sun-drenched twist to the usual temple visit, we ascend the stupa’s sloping plinth and roam its whitewashed dome. Tendrils of diaphanous prayer flags stream from a steeple-like structure where the Buddha’s unblinking eyes stare out. No nirvana for you…
Tibetan-style prayer flags embellish the whitewashed dome of Bouda Stupa, a Buddhist temple. (Credit: Kate Hennessy)
The dome is delightfully free of guard rails or chiding from security. There is, however, a stern ‘No TikTok’ sign, perhaps in response to the youth’s newly flexed power. The booted-out Prime Minister, K.P. Sharma Oli, was replaced in a resounding election victory in March by 35-year-old Balendra Shah of the Rastriya Swatantra Party (RSP) – a former rapper and mayor of Kathmandu. The RSP’s manifesto indicates tourism is a priority, and that Nepal’s cultural identity in areas such as gastronomy will be strengthened.
Vibrant souvenir shops and cafes around Boudha Stupa. (Credit: Kate Hennessy)
A more confronting stop awaits at Pashupatinath Temple. Today is Bala Chaturdashi, a Hindu festival where thousands of devotees gather to honour their dead ancestors. Vendors hauling foam mattresses do a lucrative trade as people set up for a night of vigil. This includes burning the bodies of recently deceased relatives on bamboo pyres in the Bagmati River, which flows into the sacred Ganges.
A woman at annual Hindu festival Bala Chaturdashi, in Kathmandu. (Credit: Kate Hennessy)
Wrapped in a shroud, the bodies are positioned with their heads facing north to the Himalayas where Lord Shiva resides. They’re covered with flowers and straw and set alight by male family members.
Hours later, the ashes are swept into the river where devotees will take a holy dip the next day. As much as Monica assures us it’s not voyeuristic to watch, I struggle to do so. “Here you see the reality of life because everyone ends up there,” she says, gesturing to the river.
Life unfiltered in the Terai region
Tharu woman and master weaver Parbati Chaudhary in Bhada Village. (Credit: Bheem Thapa)
The reality of life needs processing time, which the western Terai region delivers in spades. The Terai is largely separated from India by the Karnali River and Bardiya National Park, where elephants, rhinos and the elusive Bengal tiger roam.
Once a nomadic tribe, the Indigenous Tharu people are now the largest ethnic group here. “They didn’t know their daily life was interesting for international travellers but they’re starting to understand now,” says CHN founder Shiva.
Take a Jeep safari through Bardiya National Park. (Credit: Bheem Thapa)
We fly Buddha Air to Dhangadhi airport and drive five hours to stay in Tharu homes. The journey to Bhada village is a blur of roadside fruit stalls, traffic-stopping sacred cows and fields sown with wheat, rice, mustard, spinach, cauliflower and potatoes. Nepal’s agriculture feeds only Nepal.
Marigolds are an important part of Hindu rituals. (Credit: Simon Urwin)
“The only thing we export is young people,” says our guide Bikal. As the light dims and we plunge evermore rural, mysterious mounds of compacted hay – some house-sized – loom like the creatures from Where The Wild Things Are. Even our trusty driver gets flummoxed by a dirt road that abruptly ends and we find ourselves hurtling across a paddock.
On arrival, some are ferried to mud-walled cottages greened by gourd creepers, with thatched roofs and rustic-chic mosquito nets. Myself and two others are ushered to the home of corner store owner, mechanic and mushroom farmer Man Kumar Chilaruwa and his wife Rajkumari.
A warm welcome at a community homestay. (Credit: Simon Urwin)
They escort us to a bunker-esque back building with steel doors and a folding security gate, behind which is gleaming linoleum, dolphin-printed tiles and a shower cavity that must be gingerly stepped through to reach the toilet.
The ceiling lights emit a rainbow of colours (the bathroom light gets stuck in, frankly, a quite frightening red). We’re nevertheless touched that our hosts invested in all this bling when the average salary is around $275 a month.
In the coming days, we participate in Tharu traditions such as making moonshine, dancing, weaving straw handicrafts and gold-panning. We’re fed well with staples of rice, mustard greens, lentil pancakes, daal, curried chicken and tomato chutney served on antibacterial saal leaves.
Dig in. (Credit: Kate Hennessy)
Sonara community homestay president Indradevi Tharu tells us river snails are often served, and the boiled and pickled flesh of rats hunted in the rice fields. “Perhaps next time?” we say and all have a laugh.
The power of community homestays
Barda community homestay owners Parbati Chaudhary and Ram Krishni Devi Chaudhary. (Credit: Simon Urwin)
Immersing Western visitors in foreign cultural practices is not new. But with the Tharu, I never get that uneasy sensation that I’m being performed for. Despite being the only tourists, there’s no ‘othering’; just warm, composed and ultra-dignified welcomes. Like we’ve always been here.
“I love to have travellers in my village so I can see the world,” says local woman Parbati Chaudhary. “Why would I travel the world when the world comes to me?”
The graceful acceptance the Tharu offer, as well as the slow pace, works miracles on my frazzled nervous system. One day I even take a nap on a vacant homestay bed.
An authentic stay in the Sonara community. (Credit: Kate Hennessy)
Roosters strut and goats bray as we sit on the ground in al fresco kitchens, rolling rice flour into cylinders steamed to make dhikri (dumplings). When water is needed, we fetch it using a hand-operated pump as a family of ducks strolls by, side-eying us like curious neighbours.
Animal lovers will delight in Tharu villages. Kind and resourceful inventions are everywhere, such as snacking stations where two posts lean together, with leafy boughs dangling on rope for baby goats to forage from.
CHN’s CEO, Aayusha Prasain, nods knowingly when one in our group says she cried when she left her host, Shayam Chaudhary, in Bhada. Shayam’s 17-year-old son, Prashant, had translated, which deepened the connection.
“Community tourism turns travel into a relationship, not a transaction,” says Aayusha. “It places decision-making power in the hands of local communities, especially women and youth.” Since 2018, CHN has hosted more than 4000 travellers from 52 countries in 408 households, and estimates women’s participation has increased by 381 per cent.
Elephant watch. (Credit: Simon Urwin)
In the Bardiya community, where vexing human-animal conflict has been a balancing act for decades due to elephants raiding crops, long-time homestay operator Salik Ram Chaudhary says young people keep the older ones on their toes.
Gathering greens. (Credit: Bheem Thapa)
“We can’t keep homestays stagnant,” he says. “We have to upgrade our service and redefine our product or young people won’t see it as an attractive business. If we can keep evolving with this travelling trend we’re confident the youths will stay and continue it.”
Back in Kathmandu, Monica explains that after the deaths of young protestors in September, a determination had spread to not let their sacrifice be in vain. “We want to keep holding the government accountable,” she says. “We don’t know what situation we’re facing, but we’re ready to face it.”
Interested in Nepal but prefer to experience it in total comfort? Read our guide to luxury travel in Nepal.
