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Life at a Saigon Street Market
It’s still dark when Bà wakes Thức, his parents gone to work, and still dark when they reach the market. Light bulbs flicker, swaying on their wires. Along the laneway, the fishmongers are at work, slapping silvery bodies against their boards, scales flying as they scrape. Thức’s uniform is freshly cleaned and he’s not allowed to touch anything wet, so Bà sets him on an upturned crate behind her stall and lights the little gas burner. School is a whole morning away. Already the air presses warm against his face, thick with salt and diesel and the sweet smoke of old men’s cigarettes.
Thức peers along the laneway, trying to see who is at work. He hopes Dì Sáu is here. She always gives him one of her homemade kẹo me, though her hands smell like fish and she teases him constantly. Yesterday she flicked a handful of water at him when he leaned too close to her bucket, causing him to panic. Bà would have scolded him no end if it had ruined his uniform. Seeing the look on his face, Dì Sáu laughed so loudly the other fishmongers turned round.
Cô Lan is his favourite because she has the best xôi. She always has a smile for him and he loves unwrapping the banana leaf and letting the coconut-scented steam escape. Sometimes there’s even a surprise mung bean filling. Yes, Cô Lan is definitely number one. Ranking aunties and uncles by the snacks they give him is one of Thức’s favourite games.
He will visit Chú Năm too. Thức thinks the snacks that always sit on Chú Năm’s workbench make him number two.
At the far end he sees Ông Hùng buying a newspaper and reminds himself to stay out of his way.
Thức strains to see further as the light turns grey. Bà says he’s not allowed to leave the crate until she clicks off the bulb above her stall. This is the first of her three rules: stay on the crate, stay clean, eat before school. So every morning he sits, trying not to fidget as she chops and slices and bashes stalks of lemongrass, sending citrusy freshness into the air. Bà has had the same noodle stall at the market for forty years now. Thức can’t imagine doing anything for forty years.
Running through the alleyways and visiting aunties and uncles is so much better than sitting still, so he keeps one eye on the bulb.
Finally it goes out. Thức is up before Bà can speak, asking if he can go see Cụ Bảy, whose stall is the third one down from Bà’s, under the green awning.
She tells him to be careful and not to get dirty as she smooths his hair and adjusts his collar. She’s always worrying herself about how he looks. Thức doesn’t understand why.
As soon as she lets him go, Thức rushes off down the alley, playing hopscotch around the puddles of overnight rain. Cụ Bảy never has anything for him, but Thức always visits her first. She is the oldest in the market and everyone makes sure to greet her each morning. Cụ Bảy doesn’t talk much, but he senses she likes having him there. Sometimes they just sit quietly in between customers, which is fine by Thức. He’s never quite sure what he should say to Cụ Bảy anyway.
Around the corner with the butcher stalls that smell like copper, he finds Chú Năm bent over his sewing machine. Chú Năm is always busy, but he’s happy to see Thức and lets him hold thread and spare buttons as he repairs another pair of trousers. Thức is careful not to drop anything, he doesn’t want to let Chú Năm down.
Thức is fascinated by Chú Năm’s sewing machine and the speed of the tailor’s hands. Everything’s a blur. Thức thinks Chú Năm can stitch a tear faster than anyone. He asks Thức about school and the latest episode of Thần đồng đất Việt while he works and lets him help himself to the tin of salted peanuts.
As the sun gains strength, shoppers crowd the market. Prices and counter-offers fly back and forth over Thức’s head, until even the rattle of the sewing machine is drowned out by the shouting. Chú Năm is busy pinning hems and measuring customers waists with his blue tape, so Thức thinks it’s time to move on. He waves goodbye and scampers towards Bác Hai’s cart at the corner of the market. The heat is making him thirsty.
Thức isn’t allowed coffee and thinks it tastes awful anyway. The only good thing about coffee is the smell. But Bác Hai also has sữa đá, which is delicious and refreshing, so he decides to order one. Bà will pay Bác Hai later, on one of her delivery rounds. As he approaches, he can hear ice clinking in glasses.
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He stops short. He sees Ông Hùng perched on one of the low plastic stools that surround the cart, engrossed in his newspaper as he sips a cà phê đen. Ông Hùng terrifies Thức. His face is covered in wrinkles and he’s never seen him smile. Ông Hùng is tall and very thin, and when he walks, he drags one of his legs. Bà says he was a soldier a long time ago and to leave him be, but Thức doesn’t know anything about that. He just knows the stool next to Ông Hùng is always empty, even when others are standing, and Thức thinks that’s rude.
Careful not to make eye contact with the old man, Thức edges up to the cart and asks Bác Hai for his milk. As she passes him the glass he notices a stranger sitting with a drink on one of the other stools. He is drinking a cà phê đá and has a big camera on his knee. This stranger’s skin is very white and his eyes under his hat are a strange pale colour. His shirt sticks to his back and Thức thinks he looks very unwell. He stares at the man until Bác Hai scolds him.
Thức gulps down his sữa đá and stands to return the glass, but still unnerved by Ông Hùng, he fumbles, watching in horror as it slips from his hands and shatters on the concrete. Sticky condensed milk splashes up and over his school uniform. Heads turn. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Ông Hùng flinch. The newspaper trembles.
Thức tries to think of a solution as he stares down at the shards. This will mean trouble with Bà. She will have to pay for it.
Wide-eyed, he looks to Bác Hai for help, but Bác Hai only laughs and beckons him over to wipe at the spots. Better, but his clothes are still wet, and he needs to get back to Bà.
Thức doesn’t see the figure sweeping the broken glass, dragging one leg as he works.
He sets off for Bà’s stall, his feet finding the way without him while he rehearses what he’ll say. It slipped. It was an accident. It wasn’t really his fault. Twice he stops to pick at his shirt. He dodges swirling scooters and the warm breath of their exhaust. His shadow has shrunk to a puddle around his feet. Usually this would tell him he should already be back, but today his head is too full of the glass and what Bà will say.
It’s only when Thức almost runs into Anh Khoa’s motorbike that he remembers school. Anh Khoa is balanced on top, napping with his feet on the handlebars and fingers clasped behind his head. Anh Khoa always sleeps like this after finishing his deliveries, which is about the time Bà will have his meal ready for him. She always says a hungry stomach can’t learn. Thức isn’t sure it works like that, but Bà will be upset if he doesn’t eat, so he starts to run.
Around, over and under the tangle of legs, brooms and shopping bags, Thức sprints, skidding past the fishmongers washing down their stations. Dì Sáu cackles as he rushes past and he veers away from the spray of her hose. Through a fence he can see a stream of identical shirts glaring in the hard white light. He knows he’s almost out of time.
A sharp, salty smell: Thím Chín Khô’s dried shrimp and anchovies. Good, almost there. Thím Chín Khô’s stall is across from Bà’s.
Bà’s pot smells of sour tomato and sweet crab and it glows orange as she stirs. Practising best behaviour, Thức heads for the upturned crate and sits as straight and still as he can. Bà, though, doesn’t say anything about his shirt. She only passes him the bowl of bún riêu and tells him to hurry up but to be careful not to spill any. Strange. Bà notices everything. Thức sneaks a glance at the spots on his uniform and sees they are gone. A miracle! Then he realises: the hot sun and sprint through the market must have dried them.
Overcome with relief and feeling a little stupid, Thức lets his mind wander again and doesn’t feel the crab meat slide from his chopsticks. Bà is already crossing the stall, damp cloth in hand. Thức doesn’t understand what’s happening until he looks down at the bright orange stain on his white shirt.
Oh no.
This story is a retelling of a project made years ago after visiting Chợ Bà Chiểu in Saigon. It was created from a conversation I had with Thức and his grandmother later that day through an interpreter. I had no direct quotes to include and of course had to imagine what Thức was thinking, but the people are real and the setting and details are as they described them, with some extra research to fill the gaps.
The original story focused on my own experience of that day as an outsider, and I think it’s interesting to compare the two viewpoints as a reminder of how differently we all see the world. Read the original version here.
All Images by Mark Eden.
This story was originally published in Wayward, a monthly newsletter of travel photography and stories. Subscribe at markeden.com.au/newsletter
