The Market

Today, I went to the market. I’m not talking about Lucky Supermarket which caters to the expat community here. No, I was the only Western face wandering through the dank corridor of vegetable stands, passing giggling Khmer venders and shoppers. Less than two blocks from my apartment, this massive labyrinth of produce appears unexpectedly. From the street, I only notice one or two vendors selling apples imported from New Zealand, tangerines, dragon fruits, and litchis. I wonder how they came across the apples in the first place.

As I purchase a few fruits, I realize these vendors are merely the gateway to an extensive network of produce sellers and fishmongers and vendors of eighteen different kinds of cooking oils and single-use packets of shampoo. The deeper into the market I wander, the darker it becomes, sunlight blocked by the crowded stalls covered with low-hanging burlap tarps. I am overwhelmed by the smell of dried fish and roasting garlic. A vegetable vendor grins at me, thrusting forth knobby green bitter melons with her gnarled fingers and soliciting my business in Khmer. Peanuts and cashews in tiny plastic bags hang like Christmas tree ornaments, swaying as a motorcycle bumps into the stand in his irrational attempt to drive through the narrow space.

One stall over, an entire family lounges on a raised platform wearing pajama suits and playing cards.

I look to my right just as a woman dumps a bucket full of live fish, splashing relentlessly as they beg to be returned to the river. Her sister removes the scales from this morning’s catch.

A little further, the squawk of an angry chicken announces my entrance to the meat section of the market. Shoppers can choose between the plucked, naked chickens swaying like broken wind chimes and the stack of freshly killed birds that resemble a pile of feather dusters. Just beside their dead cousins, a crate is packed with a dozen clamoring chickens who seem aware of their fate. Across the narrow path, a series of pig organs hang from the stall. Pig feet are lined in a neat row along the table.

I reach the end of the market and turn around to head home. A Khmer woman turns to her friends and says something loudly. I pick out the word ‘foreigner’ and glance sharply to my right. She shrieks with laughter and directs her Khmer chatter at me. I pretend to understand and laugh, which is apparently the correct response.

I return home with my little bag of fruits and vegetables, and I feel strangely accomplished. I have succeeded! I have purchased three apples at the Khmer price! I bought an onion! I am amused at my own pride.