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The Jade Emperor Pagoda
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Ho Chi Minh City's Jade Emperor Pagoda (known to the Vietnamese as Chua Ngoc Hoang) is one of my favorite temples in Vietnam. Here's how I described it shortly after my visit:

From outside, the temple – built by the Cantonese Congregation in 1909 – doesn’t look like much. There’s a tiny pond out front full of several dozen turtles competing for position in the sun. A small structure in front of the main building is covered with symbols, the most prominent among them swastika- like in appearance – though I’d see it repeated throughout the country, I never did learn the symbol’s meaning. [Note: I have since learned that the swastika is a traditional symbol of Buddhism predating Nazi Germany.] Upon entering the main temple structure, eyes adjusting to the dim light, you are greeted on the right by Mon Quan, God of the Gate and – opposite him on the other side of the entrance – Tho Than, God of the Land. Both are housed in beautifully carved wooden cases. A few steps on, a couple of ten-foot-tall “generals” flank either side of an altar. The figures, both dark and heavily bearded, stand atop vanquished foes – one a dragon, the other a tiger (don’t ask me about the meaning here – you’ll have to research Chinese legends on your own). Several statues sit atop the altar. One has eighteen arms, same eerie swastika visible behind her head; another is your standard restaurant Buddha. At the front of the altar are candles, incense sticks, flowers, and offerings of fruit. I’ve wondered several times, offerings of fresh fruit and other food being common throughout the region: What happens to all the fruit when the gods are finished eating?

Behind the altar is the main sanctuary. It is here that the structure’s dreary external appearance is dismissed and the temple is deemed spiritual and inspiring. And – while they’re beautiful, intriguing, even spiritual themselves – it’s not the presence of the Jade Emperor and a host of Buddhist and Taoist gods that does the trick. Instead, the magic seems to be in the combination of natural light filtering through the rafters above your head and the slow, twisting eddies of smoke rising from burning joss sticks at your feet and waist. Elaborate Chinese lettering and carvings grace the walls, dark enough to remain properly in the background of the scene. Several soft red bulbs and the glow of burning candles and oil lamps cast perfect light on the Emperor and the guardians at his sides. Shafts of sunlight and smoke throw vertical stripes across the room, strength shifting with the movement of clouds across the sky.

A temple worker, an “attendant” of some sort, is a constant human presence in the room. He moves about, checking candles and adjusting the level of oil in the lamps. An occasional “boonnngggg” announces the arrival of a worshipper (there are not many this day, no more than two or three at a time). Burning incense sticks in hand, the worshipper kneels and bows in the direction of the gods, rising and falling several times. The hands, too, go through a series of motions – top of the head, down to the chest, several shakes. Once complete, the individual rises – occasionally turning to repeat an abridged version of the ritual in another direction. Incense sticks are placed in stone containers at the center of the room, left to slowly wither away until the attendant removes them for good. Leaving, the worshipper’s movement brings a brief sense of chaos to the scene. The solid vertical shafts are suddenly broken; slow, twisting smoke thrown into a fit of swirls and dives. Moments later, calmness returns, fidgeting attendant in the corner the only source of motion or sound.