Published: January 1, 2026
What first caught my eye were the tangled, densely packed electric cables—some thick, some thin—hanging in bundles like strands of hair casually tied up. They were everywhere, yet somehow maintained a peculiar order: chaotic but orderly, dangerous yet unbroken, as if the city itself accepted that danger was part of daily life.
I stared around in disbelief, muttering under my breath, “What if there’s lightning?” My worry quickly proved unnecessary. The teammates around me seemed completely unfazed, their attention fixed on Don George, who stood speaking in front of us.
Don George, editor-at-large for National Geographic Traveler, had been invited to Bangkok to lead a training session for writers and beginners. I was one of the beginners, eager to hone my craft. It was 2015. I was still a young painter, traveling the world to explore cultures while longing to translate the beauty I saw into words.
“Once we cross this overhead bridge, we’ll reach Khlong Toei Market,” Don said, wiping sweat from his forehead and nape with a towel. “It’s one of the most vibrant, bustling traditional markets in the heart of Bangkok.” He reminded us of key points for our writing exercises. Light but firm, his tone carried encouragement: “I hope you gain a lot from this. Let’s go.”
We crossed the overhead bridge, walking along the roadside, the cables skimming over our heads like familiar shadows. Soon, the market’s scents greeted us before the market appeared—the air thick with salted fish, cilantro, spices, and fruit, with a faint whiff of flower garlands offered to the Buddha. It was a chaotic yet harmonious symphony. The smells stirred childhood memories of walking with my mother through the markets of Kuala Belait, Brunei. Though it was my first time in Khlong Toei, these human, everyday scents felt familiar and reassuring—this was the flavor of life.
We split up to work individually, each observing and recording the market in our own way. I slowed my pace, letting sensory details and the low hum of the crowd enter my world. Most vendors were local women, moving skillfully among their stalls. It was afternoon, and some teenagers, still in school uniforms, helped push heavy mobile stalls from the scorching sun into the shade, continuing to sell fruits and vegetables. Their short statures contrasted with the weight they carried, yet their movements were precise and confident, each one radiating the resilience of daily life.
A few male vendors napped at their stalls. A nearby woman explained that they worked long hours from early morning, carrying heavy loads, so this was the best time to rest. When our voices accidentally woke them, some turned away awkwardly, while a few immediately sat up, pretending to be alert. Their neighbors chuckled, and the men smiled shyly, eyes still tinged red.
Some ate boxed meals, while others tended to young children clinging to their mothers or grandmothers. It was a quiet, tender scene. Many stalls had small golden altars with Buddha statues above them, a reflection of faith and care for life. I could feel the power and gratitude embedded in their beliefs.
I walked slowly among the stalls, my gaze drifting over people and goods. There was no performance here, only the rhythm of daily life, the breathing of human activity, and the life force embedded in each small action. I looked, I smelled, I absorbed it all, as if the market itself were quietly telling me: every corner holds a story, worth pausing to listen to.
When it was time to regroup, we gathered around Don George. He was still wiping sweat, with a smile spreading across his face. “How are your takeaways?” he asked. The teammates shook their notebooks; some said confidently, “Done,” while others shared reflections. I, however, looked around restlessly, feeling heavy-hearted, wanting to absorb every detail of the scene before leaving.
I saw someone’s mother, someone’s father, someone’s grandparents, someone’s child—and I saw what life had given me, and what I had offered back. Khlong Toei Market had given me more than a scene; it had given me a sense of life’s depth.
Before leaving, I brought my hands together and bowed my head in a quiet gesture of thanks—“khop khun ka”—spoken with a gentle, melodious lilt.
As we walked back to the classroom, the overhead wires still skimmed past like tied-up strands of hair, mingling with the continual honking of cars and tuk-tuks stuck in traffic. My thoughts surged like the tide—chaotic yet orderly.
曼谷空提的下午
发布日期：2026年1月1日
映入眼帘的是纵横交错、密密麻麻的电线——有粗有细，像被人随手扎起的头发，一束一束垂挂在半空。它们几乎无处不在，却奇异地维持着某种秩序：乱而不散，险而不崩，仿佛这座城市默认了危险本身也是日常的一部分。
我目瞪口呆地环顾四周，低声自语：“要是打雷闪电，这里该怎么办？”事实证明，我的顾虑完全多余。身边的队友们早已司空见惯，把注意力全都交给了前方正在讲解的东·乔治。
东·乔治是美国《国家地理·旅行者》特约主编，此行受邀来到曼谷，为一群热爱写作的学者和初学者进行训练。我正是其中之一。那是2015年，我还是一名年轻画家，在世界各地行走、探索文化，同时渴望用文字把亲眼所见的美转化为另一种存在。
“只要穿过这座天桥，就能到达 Khlong Toei Market（空提菜市场）。”他一边擦去额头和颈背的汗水，一边说，“那里是曼谷市中心最具烟火气的传统市场。”话音未落，他顺势提醒我们写作课的重点，语气轻松却不容忽视：“希望你们收获丰富。出发吧。”
我们穿过天桥，沿路而行，头顶的电线像习以为常的影子掠过。很快，味觉比视觉先一步迎接我们——空气里弥漫着咸鱼、香菜、香料和水果的气息，还有祭拜佛像的小花环清香，像一首乱而有序的交响曲。这味道让我想起童年，随妈妈在马来奕镇菜市场的记忆浮现。第一次踏入空提，但这种人间烟火，总有某种令人安心的共通性——这就是生活的味道。
我们各自分头行动，用自己的眼睛和文字记录市场。我缓慢行走，让感官与人群的喧嚣一同进入我的世界。小贩们几乎都是当地妇女，她们熟练地穿梭于摊位间。此刻是下午，一些放学的初中生仍穿着校服，推着沉重的移动摊位，从烈日下搬到阴凉处，继续售卖水果和蔬菜。矮小身躯与沉重货物形成对比，却毫不拖泥带水，每一个动作都透着生活的韧性。
几名男贩在摊位上午休。旁边的妇女指着他们告诉我，男人们起早贪黑，早上搬运满满的货都是体力活，现在正是休息的最佳时段。被我们的声音吵醒，男贩有的不好意思地翻身，有的立刻起身装作精神，周围摊友轻笑，他们也腼腆笑了，眼角带着红丝。
有的在忙着吃饭，有的带着年幼的孩子，孩子们依偎在母亲或奶奶身旁。这是一幅平凡而温暖的画面。许多摊位上方都设有金色的小祭台，供奉佛像，那是信仰，也是对生活的眷顾。我能感受到他们对信仰的力量与感恩。
我缓缓穿行在摊位之间，目光在人群和货物间流转。这里没有人为的刻意，只有日常的节奏、呼吸般的烟火气，以及每个微小动作里蕴含的生活力量。我用心去看、去闻、去感受，仿佛市场在低声告诉我：每个角落都有故事，值得停下脚步去聆听。
集合时，我们围着东·乔治。他依旧擦汗，嘴角上扬：“大家收获如何？”队友们摇动手中的笔记本，有些自信地说“写好了”，有的开始分享心得。我却东张西望，心里有些沉重，想把眼前的每个细节都留存下来。
我看见某人的母亲、某人的父亲、某人的爷爷奶奶、某人的孩子，也看见生活赠予我的，和我回馈给生活的。空提市场给我的，不只是一个场景，而是一种生活的厚度。
离别前，我合上双手，低头轻声道谢——“khop khun ka”（口坤卡）。
随着队伍离开市场，沿路返回教室。头顶的电线依旧像扎起的马尾轻轻掠过，堵在路上的车辆与嘟嘟车仍在响起喇叭，我的思绪如潮，乱而有序。