The floating market begins at about five o’clock every morning. Our boat had a canopy along most of its length and kindergarten chairs placed along each side for our comfort, but the locals sat on flat bottoms with nothing to obstruct the path of flung produce. Most of the market boats had deep hulls, which presumably held more of the stock we could see piled up on deck – pineapples, rice, watermelons, chokos. Smaller boats, often driven by women in conical straw hats, who used one foot to manoeuvre the propellers on long poles, would pull up beside the market boats and catch cluster after cluster of bananas, arranging them on the deck until they threatened to spill over the side. These would be taken back to the markets on the shore for the landlubbers to buy.
I was just considering buying something, anything for the experience, when a small boat laden with packets of chips pulled up beside ours. Quang bought twenty packets, which satisfied by desire, adding them to a bunch of toothbrushes I assume he’d picked up from hotels. When we’d seen enough of the market, Quang directed the boatman to take us into a quiet backwater filled. Here, boats converted into homes nestled amongst giant water lilies, and children ‘hello’ed us from every direction. We approached each boat to give delighted children both chips and brushes. Dogs barked as we neared, in one case, skidding over the edge and into the river before climbing back up and slinking away, embarrassed. Mothers were usually as happy as their children to receive the gifts, but one woman glared as she took the packets, threw them at her children and turned her back on us. It was easy to look at the run-down boats, confined indoor space and the danger of water all around, and think these people were poor, but I saw bright smiles, clean clothes and freedom and wondered if they would really envy us our lives.