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A solitary landmark amidst the vast ocean and sky.
Located approximately 500 meters from the mainland, the Ke Ga Lighthouse stands as a classical architectural structure, isolated amidst the azure sea of Ke Ga Cape. From a distance, the structure resembles a single vertical dot in the expansive space, where the horizon stretches without interruption.
The Kê Gà lighthouse has stood alone amidst the sea and sky of Lâm Đồng (formerly Bình Thuận) for over a century.
Built and completed by the French in 1899, the structure has stood for over a century, enduring the sea breeze and the ravages of time. The tower's body is made of gray granite, a sturdy structure with nearly 200 spiral steps leading to the top, reaching a height of approximately 35 meters. From sea level, the light can reach a height of over 60 meters, becoming an important navigational landmark for ships passing through the South Central coastal region.
Ke Ga is the oldest lighthouse in Southeast Asia and the tallest in Vietnam. In 2025, Ke Ga Lighthouse was classified as a provincial-level historical and architectural monument.
The name "Ke Ga" also carries multiple layers of meaning. The most common explanation is that the headland jutting out into the sea resembles a chicken's head, creating a visually intuitive folk name. However, in some old documents, this place name was recorded as "Khe Ga," which gradually changed over time and during the French colonial period.
Regardless of the theory behind it, this area has retained its rare unspoiled beauty: large granite boulders naturally stacked, interspersed with low-lying vegetation characteristic of a dry, windy coastal region. Without the usual rows of shops or long stretches of beach, Ke Ga exists as an open space – a place where the landscape remains almost completely untouched.
The lighthouse is surrounded by stacked granite blocks.
That minimalist aesthetic is what attracts those seeking tranquility, photographers hunting for moments, or simply anyone wanting to see a different side of the Vietnamese sea – where everything unfolds more slowly and clearly.
Life awakens before dawn.
In stark contrast to the tranquility of the lighthouse offshore, the canoe landing area on shore operates at a different rhythm: fast, noisy, and full of energy.
The fish market is located on the beach not far from the lighthouse.
Around 5 a.m., before dawn, the area began to stir. Night-fishing boats returned, bringing with them the smell of the sea and the hurried pace of life. Powerful flashlight beams swept across the water, dividing the space into distinct patches of light and shadow.
Basket boats constantly move between the ship and the shore, forming an uninterrupted transport chain. Fish are quickly passed from hand to hand, poured into large plastic baskets, and arranged in rows on the sand. In the cool white light, the scales reflect and shimmer like vibrant patches of silver.
Trays and baskets of fish are transported by small boats from fishing vessels anchored offshore to the shore.
Porters busily carry their loads, fish weighers work tirelessly, and scribes quickly fill worn-out notebooks. In another corner, a few women sit on the sand, meticulously sorting fish by size and species, preparing for their next trips further inland.
The fish are sorted into baskets, weighed in tens of kilograms, before being sold.
An elderly fisherman, having just finished pulling in his catch, said succinctly, "The sea is calm today; catching this much fish is something to be happy about." From that statement, we understand that every fishing trip depends on factors beyond our control.
Another person butted in while weighing the fish: "This basket is cheap, I'll take it all," to which the other interrupted: "That's already a great price; you won't find it this cheap in a few days." The exchanges were quick and direct: price, quantity, timing.
The fish market bustles with activity at night, before dawn breaks.
As the sun began to rise, natural light gradually replaced the flashlight beams, and the pace of the market slowed down. The last baskets of fish were taken away, and the beach quickly returned to its quiet state, as if all the previous activity had vanished into the pitch-black night.
As dawn broke, the market dispersed, and the beach returned to its usual tranquility.
Sunrise over the sea as seen from the lighthouse.
My trip to Ke Ga Lighthouse started at 5 am. I rented a canoe to the island for 70,000 VND per person for a round trip right at the beach where the fish market is held.
The canoe left the shore before dawn, a pale pink film like a watercolor stain spreading across the sky. As we moved further out, the sounds from the land faded, replaced by the sound of the wind and the steady rhythm of the waves.
Canoes take tourists to Ke Ga Lighthouse to watch the sunrise.
As we approached Ke Ga Cape, the landscape became clearer, with massive granite boulders piled haphazardly on top of each other. The waves weren't violent, but they continuously crashed against the rocks, creating streaks of white foam that quickly dissipated in the water. There were no long sandy beaches, no crowded shops, only rocks, wind, and the repetitive sound of the sea.
Approaching the lighthouse, the rock formations become clearly visible, their smooth, rounded surfaces eroded by waves, sea wind, and time.
From the path leading up to the lighthouse, looking to my left, I saw the sun beginning to rise from the sea, nestled neatly between a natural gap between two cliffs. The image was round, slow, and almost completely unobstructed. The light gradually spread, touching every surface of the rocks, walls, and trees, making every detail clear.
The sunrise as seen from the Kê Gà lighthouse.
The path leading up to the tower passes through an ancient garden of frangipani trees, planted by the French when the lighthouse was built. The air here feels dry and crisp, with a constant breeze blowing from many directions, carrying a distinct salty scent. Standing in this space, one feels almost insignificant, not because of the overwhelming grandeur, but because of the emptiness and decisiveness of the landscape.
From the base of the lighthouse, the sea is completely open, undivided by large islands or densely packed ships. At different times of the day, the water's color also changes noticeably, from pale blue in the morning to deep blue as the sun rises, then gradually shifting to a silvery hue as evening falls.
Below, paths lead to the very edge of the rocks. The grass is a golden hue, the water is blue, and the lighthouse stands out as a distinct geometric shape against the sky.
The burnt grassy area by the sea at the foot of the lighthouse.
According to its old administrative geography, the lighthouse belongs to Tan Thanh commune, Ham Thuan Nam district, about 30 km south of Phan Thiet city center. To reach it, visitors must travel by basket boat or canoe from the shore to the island, a journey of only about 10 minutes but heavily dependent on tides and weather.
An aerial view of the residential area and the sea surrounding the Ke Ga lighthouse.
That morning, I had to wade through water to board the canoe to leave the island, then transfer from the canoe to a small basket boat to get ashore because of the high tide. It was an unexpected experience, but it made the journey more memorable than planned.
Depending on the water level and time of day, visitors may have to wade out to the canoe dock.
The basket-making village under the shade of the banyan trees by the sandy beach.
At midday, when the sunlight reaches its peak intensity, the entire coastal area enters a state of near stillness. The hustle and bustle of the morning is gone, but work continues in a different, slower way.
Under the shade of the sun, the basket boats are pulled ashore and lined up on the hot sand. Fishermen sit and untangle the last catch of the morning. The nets are spread out, some untangling the fish, others inspecting them, and still others mending torn sections, preparing for the next trip out to sea when night falls.
Uncle Ba and his wife sat under the shade of a banyan tree, untangling their nets as they shared, "This season, we mainly catch scad. In a few days, when the sea is calmer, we'll see more kinds of fish." The conversation was brief, just a few pieces of information, but enough to clearly show how the rhythm of the fishing industry depends closely on the season and weather.
When asked about their work, the couple just smiled gently: "We've gotten used to it. From our ancestors' time until now, we've been accustomed to the sea; we wouldn't know what else to do if we quit." Their sun-tanned skin, rough hands, and even the way they talked about their work reflected an almost ingrained attachment to it.
Here, work is not seen as a choice, but as a pre-existing state of being. From generation to generation, the rhythm of life doesn't change much. The sea dictates most things: the time to go out to sea, the types of fish, the income, even the mood.
Further out, the sea reflected the sunlight so intensely it was almost blinding, creating the sensation of a long, molten metal sheet. Scattered along the shore, small groups sat close to the sand, silently mending their nets, speaking little, focusing only on the task at hand.
Some people were sitting and mending fishing nets right on the deserted beach.
There are no climaxes, no dramatic highlights, but it is this very stillness that completes the picture of Ke Ga - a place where every rhythm of life, whether fast or slow, revolves around the sea and follows an order that has existed for a very long time.
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