Countryside market during flood season

Illustration photo (AI)

When the flood season comes, water from the source silently rises, overflows the fields, and flows into the alleys. The familiar road leading to the market every day now has only bamboo and banana trees swaying in the murky yellow water. However, my hometown people still cannot give up the habit of holding markets. The market during the flood season is moved to the street, and sometimes even has to climb up to the foot of the bridge, the highest place in the area.

The flood season market is very simple! There are only a few fish stalls, a few dried food stalls, a few vegetable baskets, a few bunches of bananas, and a few bunches of water spinach still covered in mud from the garden. There are few sellers but many buyers. Everyone understands that on flooded days like this, having something to sell or buy is precious. Many people row their boats, leading their children, carrying a few bunches of vegetables, a few squashes, and a few eggs in a basket to bring to the market. The buyers, with their pants half high and one low, have just waded out of the village or stepped down from their boats, holding a plastic basket swaying in the drizzle.

Yet the market was still cheerful. The voices of people calling each other and asking questions were so loud that they drowned out the sound of the water flowing under the bridge. Whenever they met, people would ask about each other's houses: "Has the water gone yet?", "Are the chickens okay?", "Did the water rise so quickly last night?". The questions were mixed with worry, and the answers were filled with joy at knowing they were being cared for. The market was always filled with talking and laughter, even though all around was water.

The vendors always looked at the water behind them, afraid that if the water rose further, they would have to move their goods up to the bridge. Sometimes, they had to put up some planks to keep their goods dry. The rain was drizzling, their nylon raincoats stuck to their bodies, their hands cupped to cover their vegetables and fish baskets, but no one complained. The villagers were used to floods, they just hoped that after a few days the water would recede, the fields would be green again, and the banks would turn yellow with ripe rice.

I love the flooded country market for that special thing - the human affection in difficult times. There, buying and selling seems to be just an excuse for people to meet and share. Those who have extra give, those who don’t have enough take, no one bargains. Sometimes, the seller says “no, take it, we have a small child”, the buyer gives a few more coins “to buy oil for lighting tonight”. Rain, wind, flood, but how warm it is.

Thinking about the flooded rural market, I often remember the times I followed my mother to the market when I was a child. Those were the days when the rain was pouring down, the water was knee-deep, every family huddled in the attic, the rice was cooked with stored dry rice, for several days we had to eat instant noodles. When the rain stopped and the water receded a bit, my father rowed the boat to take my mother and me to the market. My father said, "I heard the market is now open on the bridge."

Sitting in the boat, I often looked around, seeing a sad yellow color everywhere. The thatched roofs were only visible at the top, flocks of ducks swam everywhere, bamboo clumps leaned down to reflect on the rushing water. The scene was desolate but still beautiful in its own way, the beauty of endurance, the tenacious vitality of the countryside every flood season. Approaching the bridge, I heard the bustling sound of the market. The boat reached the shore, my mother carried a plastic basket, wearing a conical hat and walked ahead. The market was located close together on the bridge slope, people jostled each other, goods were displayed temporarily on tarpaulins or pieces of wood. I stood close to my mother, looking at the fishmongers, the vegetable sellers and felt sorry for them. Everyone's face was sunburned, soaked with rainwater, but their smiles were still bright. My mother bought a bunch of perch, some water spinach, and a bundle of dry firewood that someone was carrying out to sell. So that night's dinner tasted strangely delicious, because it was a change after a few days of instant noodles and dried fish.

On the way back, the boat passed by a small village, and my father asked his acquaintances again. “Is Mr. Tu’s house still okay?”, “Is the cowshed flooded?”. The questions and answers echoed through the vast floodwaters, sounding so familiar. The flood can wash away many things, but it cannot wash away the love of the people in my hometown.

Now, whenever I hear news of flooding in the Central region, I am filled with nostalgia for the old flood season markets. I remember the voices of people calling to each other at the foot of the bridge, I remember the warmth that seeped into every little story amidst the vast silver water. The flood season market - where, amidst hardship, people still find joy, still kindle the flame of love, to know that no matter how high the water rises, the hearts of the villagers are always as steadfast as the bamboo banks at the beginning of the village./.

Tuong Lai

Source: https://baolongan.vn/cho-que-mua-lut-a206892.html