Have Snacks, Will Travel

Long before I could see the markets, the briny stink of fish led me to the chaotic grid of motorcycles and bright, tented stands. Without a doubt, Chau Doc boasted one of the most formidable markets in Vietnam, but time was running out on my visa, and I worried I wouldn't be able to explore them as I wished to do—over days, really getting to know their character, their moods.

Each day, I'd wander through the paths between the vendors, jostled by women in conical hats trundling carts of green coconut, or by young men cycling past with younger siblings clinging to their backs. Perhaps I was bumped so often because I couldn't help myself from stopping to stare. Thousands of dried fish hung from the roofs of the stalls—chalk white, peach-coloured, and deep red—and they swayed like paper streamers in the breeze. There were staggering amounts of fresh fish for sale: every stall boasted dozens of yellow buckets, and inside each one teetered a small mountain of seafood, whether catfish, prawns, or crabs. I would pull up a tiny plastic stool at one of the tea vendors, bombarded by the cacophony of the market: chickens squawking, vendors hollering, and a frenzy of blade-chopping, juice sluicing, and ice-dumping. I spent hours there every day, trying to soak in the vitality, but feeling that something was missing.

My final morning in Chau Doc, I woke in a strange, restless mood. The sun sidled up, and with an hour to catch my boat, I made my way down to the market one last time. I was stunned by the silence that greeted me; most of the shops were still closed. But I wandered down a path where fish scales glittered like tiles until I came upon a vendor my grandmother's age, whose stall was open. I remember the simple elegance of her purple Áo bà ba and her round, green earrings. Her eyes widened when I first sat down, and then she smiled. She filled my bowl with rice noodles, ladled hot broth overtop, and then drained them. She repeated this step five times, until the noodles were warmed through, and then she topped them with a steamed sliver of fish. Without my asking, she prepared a mug of iced coffee, and when I finished that, she poured me a glass of tea. Two elderly local women came and sat beside me. They gestured for their own soups, pointed at me, and giggled to the vendor. We all laughed, and soon we were nattering away like old friends, though I didn't speak a word of Vietnamese, nor they English. Yet, that morning, we understood each other perfectly.