(AI)
When the flood season arrives, water from the upstream silently rises, overflowing the fields and flowing into the village lanes. The familiar road leading to the market every day is now only visible as the tops of bamboo and banana trees bob in the murky yellow water. Yet, my villagers still haven't given up the habit of holding the market. During the flood season, the village market is moved to the road, and sometimes they even have to climb onto the bridge's foundation, the highest point in the area.
The market during the flood season is very simple! Just a few fish stalls, a handful of dried goods, some vegetable vendors, a few bunches of bananas, and some water spinach still covered in mud from the garden. There are few sellers but many buyers. Everyone understands that, during these flood days, having anything to sell or buy is precious. Many people paddle their boats, leading their young children, carrying a few bundles of vegetables, some pumpkins, and a few chicken eggs in baskets to bring to the market. Buyers, with their trousers unevenly rolled up, either wading out of the village or stepping down from the boats, swing their plastic baskets in the drizzling rain.
Yet the market remained lively. The shouts and calls of people, the bustling conversations, drowned out the gentle sound of water flowing under the bridge. Whenever they met, people would ask about each other's homes: "Has the water risen in your house yet?", "Are your chickens alright?", "Did the water rise so quickly last night?". Their questions were tinged with worry, and their answers with joy at knowing they were cared for. And so the market continued to be filled with chatter and laughter, even though it was surrounded by water.
The vendors constantly watch the water behind them, fearing that if the water rises further they will have to move their goods further up towards the bridge. Sometimes, they have to prop up planks of wood to keep their goods from getting wet. The rain is drizzling, their nylon raincoats cling to their bodies, their hands cupped to protect the vegetables and baskets of fish, but no one complains. The villagers are used to floods; they only hope that after a few days the water recedes, the fields will be green again, and the riverbanks will turn golden with ripe rice.
I love the rural market during the flood season precisely because of that special thing – the human connection amidst hardship. There, buying and selling seems to be just an excuse for people to meet and share. Those who have extra give, those who lack receive; no one haggles. Sometimes, a seller might say, "Just take it, you have a small child at home," and the buyer might slip in a few extra coins, "so you can buy lamp oil tonight." Rain, wind, and flooding, but how warm and comforting it all is.
Recalling the flooded village market, I often remember the times I went to the market with my mother when I was little. Those were days of torrential rain, the water rising above our knees, every house huddled upstairs, meals cooked with dried rice stored away, and for days on end we had to subsist on instant noodles. When the rain subsided and the water receded a little, my father would row the boat, taking my mother and me to the market. He said, "I heard the market is now open on the bridge."
Sitting in the boat, I often looked around, seeing only a dreary, yellowish hue everywhere. Only the tops of the thatched roofs were visible, ducks swam scattered about, and clumps of bamboo leaned over, reflecting in the rushing water. The scenery was desolate yet beautiful in its own way, the beauty of resilience and enduring life in the countryside during each flood season. As we approached the bridge, I heard the bustling sounds of the market. The boat docked, and my mother, carrying a plastic basket and wearing a conical hat, walked ahead. The market was densely packed on the bridge's slope, people jostling each other, stalls set up on tarpaulins or planks. I stood close beside my mother, watching the women selling fish and vegetables, feeling a pang of sympathy. Everyone's face was tanned and soaked with rainwater, yet their smiles were still bright. My mother bought some freshwater fish, a little water spinach, and a bundle of dry firewood that someone was carrying to sell. That evening's meal tasted unusually delicious, a welcome change after days of instant noodles and dried fish.
As we left, the boat glided past the small village, and my father called out to acquaintances, "Is Mr. Tư's house alright?", "The cow shed must be flooded, right?". The questions and answers echoed amidst the vast floodwaters, sounding so heartwarming. Floods may sweep away many things, but they can't wash away the human kindness of my hometown.
Now, whenever I hear news of flooding in Central Vietnam, my heart is filled with nostalgia for the markets of yesteryear during the flood season. I remember the voices of people calling out to each other by the bridge, the warmth that seeped into every small conversation amidst the vast expanse of water. The rural market during the flood – a place where, amidst hardship, people still found joy, still kindled the flame of love, knowing that no matter how high the water rises, the hearts of the people in the countryside remain as steadfast as the bamboo grove at the edge of the village.
Tuong Lai
Source: https://baolongan.vn/cho-que-mua-lut-a206892.html
