I can assure you it is not what you think.
This blog is several things.
It started off as a lasting impression made by a photography project, The Poverty Line, by photographer-and-economist duo Chow and Lin. The project features pictures of food that one can buy using the amount of money specified as the country’s poverty line.
It is an ode to my childhood, and Mom and Dad. I grew up in Singapore, the heart of Southeast Asia, and for as long as I can remember my parents would be pulling me out of school to pop to Bangkok, Ho Chi Minh, Vientiane, Penang, Ipoh, Jakarta, Bandung, Yunnan. In every one of those cities, my parents would inevitably make a pit stop at at least one market – usually right after we left the airport, but definitely before the flight home. It never occurred to me that freezer bags filled with vegetables, dried fish, sticky rice, nuts, various bottles of sauces etc was not normal check-in baggage till I was considerably older.
I used to hate these market trips – I remember calling the famous Ben Thanh Market in Ho Chi Minh the 笨蛋 (bèndàn, Mandarin for stupid) market, just because of how long my parents spent there and how bored I got. Another market memory that scarred me for life was in Shanghai, at the now-closed Xiangyang Market. I was around six and needed to use the toilet. Queuing was a noisy, jostling affair, but the worst had not yet come. The toilet turned out to be a drain separated by dividers, over which people squatted and did their business. Every five minutes a stream of water would run through the drain to flush everyone’s fluids to the end – where I was beginning to tremulously lower myself, a sheltered city girl who had hardly any squatting experience. Markets are a sensory experience, sometimes in ways you really don’t want.
I never could understand why my parents loved markets so much, yet I now find myself following in their footsteps, both on our travels together and on my own. I, too, buy vegetables and dry them on newspapers in the hotel room before packing them away into freezer bags. I, too, organise travel itineraries around visits to morning and night markets. I, too, take joy in going to markets just to stare at all the lovely produce that I can’t buy because they won’t travel well.
My parents refused to subscribe to Disney Channel and Cartoon Network on TV. I was raised on a diet of Asian Food Channel, Discovery Travel and Living, The Food Network (let me be clear, this is no diet). I watched Anthony Bourdain go to all these exotic, dirty, chaotic, vibrant markets, Andrew Zimmern eat the weirdest street foods, Samantha Brown live this enchanted life in Europe, in its Christmas markets and farmer’s markets and flea markets. Nowadays I watch Street Food on Netflix and get tears in my eyes. There’s something about markets that breathe life into the cities they serve, tell stories of the people who frequent and have their livelihoods in them, weave tapestries of a country’s history, society, culture, economy. When one goes to a market, one can feel the heartbeat of a people. To me, there’s no better way to experience a foreign country – and indeed, no better way to understand your own.
I’m a long way from my parent’s level of market hustling, that’s for sure. I don’t know how to pick fresh veggies or tap fruits the right way (what are we actually listening for?) and touching dead fish still kind of grosses me out. I haven’t picked up the universal custom of haggling, which transcends all language barriers. I mostly go along for the intoxicating immersion of the senses, and the inexpressible feeling of understanding the tempo of a city’s lifestyle without needing words. I’ve got plenty to learn, but I suppose that’s the whole fun of it. Join in.
Market Survey 