The day after arriving in Phnom Penh, my plans — the whole reason for the trip — fell through. With nothing left to do and having been to this city many times before, I had no interest in hitting the usual tourist spots. Besides, we were in the thick of the rainy season.
The cheap hotel room wasn’t comfortable enough to hole up in all day, and honestly, I was craving some human presence. I thought about reading at one of the nearby cafés, but afternoons are probably when the staff want their real break. The emptiness was so pronounced it made me restless. Come to think of it, there was a market somewhere on the edge of downtown. Maybe I’d head over there, take a walk. I knew not to expect much from the restaurants in the area, and figured I might pick up something for dinner at the market. I could see the afternoon storm coming, but I left without an umbrella. Traveling light just feels better.
The market, about 20 minutes on foot, was teeming with goods and energy. Vegetables, meat, fish, fresh flowers, homemade prepared foods, sweets, dried goods, clothing, household items — everything imaginable crammed into every available space. The produce looked mostly fresh.
Walking through the high-ceilinged space, I was hit by a distinctive smell. As I moved down the aisles, the merchandise changed and so did the sensory assault, shifting in interesting ways. The vendors were a mixed bunch. Young women doing business while small children played at their feet. Elderly vendors whose faces made age itself seem irrelevant. Teenagers staring at their phones with expressions of complete indifference.
The shoppers were just as diverse. What looked like restaurant buyers examining ingredients. Wholesaler types loading up on bulk quantities of the same items. Plenty of families shopping together. Everyone seemed upbeat, the whole market buzzing with life.
Then, without warning, thunder cracked like the earth splitting open. Seconds later, rain came crashing down on the market roof with crushing force. The downpour drowned out the voices of vendors and customers alike.
Still, most people carried on with their business and shopping as if nothing had happened.
New arrivals and passersby ducked into the building for shelter. With no actual doors, I could see the wet heads of those taking cover near the entrance beyond the stalls, and beyond them, the relentless rain.
Before long, the entryway was completely flooded. The makeshift street vendors who’d been doing business just outside the market — probably without permits — had packed up shop. With their spaces underwater and no realistic hope of customers in this deluge, they must have figured they’d earned a break.
The rain wouldn’t let up. A cat that lived in the market wore an expression of resignation as it stretched out on a counter and yawned.
As the downpour dragged on, more people in the market paused their work, gazing out toward the sky beyond the entrance.
After about 30 minutes, the rain was still coming down hard, but a few men started moving with impatience, not even bothering with rain jackets. They roughly covered their loaded cargo with tarps and fired up their motorbikes.
The water had risen high enough to partially submerge the bike tires. The nearby gutters had probably overflowed.
Another 30 minutes or so later, the rain stopped abruptly. It had the sudden quality of running out of fuel.
The market’s semi-frozen operations and visitors slowly stirred back to life, like pressing play on a paused video. People resumed shopping as if normalcy had returned, others headed home with their purchases, new customers arrived. The vendors went back to business without bothering to wipe down their rain-soaked goods from the ceiling leaks.
The street vendors outside had already reopened.
Aside from the still-flooded streets, the market had mostly returned to how it looked before the storm. People were smiling again.
Stepping outside, I saw the post-rain sky beginning to glow with sunset, and could feel the temperature had dropped a few degrees in the breeze. Night would gradually begin from here. I decided against buying anything after all — I’d just grab dinner at a cheap place nearby — and walked toward the main boulevard empty-handed.
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