Xinrui Wu, Honours Bachelor in International Development and Globalization, 4th year
Internship country: Vietnam
Canadian NGO: MAC
Local NGO: AEPD
My internship in Vietnam is still one of the most unforgettable parts of my university life.
I landed in Ho Chi Minh City late at night. Looking out the plane window, endless city lights stretched into the distance. The moment I stepped out of the airport, the warm air hit me. Canada was still in the middle of winter, so I immediately took off my sweater and tried to settle into this new environment.
Directly across from the airport stood a sprawling shopping mall. The streets brimmed with motorbikes, weaving through traffic incessantly. Even near midnight, the cafés buzzed with activity. People perched outside on low plastic stools, sipping coffee and chatting like the city resisted sleep.
At first, I completely fell in love with the atmosphere. My friends and I would sit there for hours, drinking Vietnamese coffee and waiting for it to drip slowly into the glass. All around us, the traffic and noise continued. Crossing the street was the hardest part. I would stand for ages, waiting for a chance to move. I must have looked completely overwhelmed. One local girl suddenly laughed, grabbed my arm, and motioned for me to follow. Before I could react, we were already weaving through the traffic together. When we reached the other side, she smiled, gave me a thumbs up, and disappeared into the crowd before I could thank her. That was the first time I truly felt the warmth of Vietnam—not from the weather, but from the kindness of its people.
After my time in Ho Chi Minh City, when I moved to Quang Binh Province for fieldwork, I began to see a completely different side of the country. Life there felt much quieter. The nights became dark early, and many families still lived very traditional lives — farming, driving motorbike taxis, or running tiny shops from the front of their homes.
Whenever we held a workshop, news spread through the village fast. One neighbor would tell another, and somehow everyone would show up. I loved how connected everyone seemed, but adjusting to the work pace took longer. Meetings never started the way they did at school. They rarely began right away. People would sit, drink tea, and chat before slowly easing into the conversation. I kept wondering why everything during fieldwork moved so slowly. After more time, I realized that people weren’t in a hurry to separate work from everyday life. Many conversations happened over tea, during shared meals, or while walking through the village. That was how people got to know and trust each other.
One afternoon, we stopped at a small pho restaurant near the entrance to a village. The owner gave us almost twice the usual amount of toppings but charged us half the normal price. When I told her I thought she had charged us the wrong price, she just laughed and waved her hand as if it were nothing. Then she said, “You young people came all the way here to volunteer. I can’t charge you full price.” I remember sitting there for a second, not really knowing what to say. It was such a small moment, but I still think about it sometimes.
One moment I remember clearly happened during a field visit. The family we visited did not have much, but before we arrived, they had arranged their best table and chairs outside for us. Someone brought out a plate of fruit I had never seen. Everyone insisted we eat more. Their child stayed hidden behind the adults almost the entire time, quietly peeking from behind someone’s shoulder. Eventually, an adult nudged him forward to hand me a piece of fruit. He ran away again immediately. The whole moment felt simple, ordinary, and incredibly warm at the same time.
Before coming to Vietnam, I had a narrow idea of “development.” I pictured sprawling cities, soaring buildings, rapid systems, and relentless growth. However, as I stayed, my perspective shifted. In some places, life moved briskly, and everything felt contemporary. By contrast, others prized family, stability, shared moments, and a tranquil daily rhythm. Neither way seemed superior; they were simply distinct ways of living.
Looking back now, I think Vietnam gave me more than just work experience. It changed the way I notice things. Some things you cannot fully understand through classes or reading. Sometimes you only begin to understand a place after living there—after getting used to its sounds, its pace, and the routines of daily life.
I still think about how nervous I was my first week in Ho Chi Minh City. I stood at the side of the road waiting for the traffic to stop, even though it never did. Months later, walking through quiet rural roads in Quang Binh at night, hearing a motorbike in the distance sometimes comforted me. It meant people were still nearby.
I see it probably the simplest thing Vietnam taught me: places that feel unfamiliar at first slowly become meaningful once you spend enough time inside them. And sometimes, long after you leave, they continue shaping the way you see the world.