A customer was squatting next to a carrying pole and basket on the street, taking a light meal

Near the market in My Tho, a town in southern Vietnam, a single tree stood by the edge of the pavement, and beneath its shade a street vendor had settled her stall. Calling it a “stall” might be generous—there was no sign, no curtain. Just a carrying pole laid on the ground, baskets tied to either end. One side held pots and bowls; the other, ingredients and condiments. A sheet of plastic draped over the top hinted at the kind of practical wisdom needed to do business in a place where dust and insects are never far away.

The proprietor, an older woman, sat on the ground, exchanging words with a customer in front of her. One of the customers, a woman in a striped shirt, crouched with her knees hugged to her chest, holding a bowl in both hands. Another sat at almost the same eye level as the vendor, wearing a look of deep concentration. Whether they were eating noodles or some glutinous rice snack, I couldn’t tell from a distance—but the aroma seemed to ride the air toward me all the same.

Glancing past the vendor, I noticed another hawker on the other side, surrounded by her own cluster of customers. This patch of shade, it seemed, was prime real estate in the marketplace. Choosing to set up shop in the sun, in this kind of heat, would be close to a death wish. Perhaps street vendors in Vietnam possess a sun-reading instinct as precise as a fisherman’s sense for tides or a farmer’s feel for the weather.

Here, the snacks on offer fit within the limits of what could be carried on that single pole—transport, cooking gear, and all. And yet people came, filled their stomachs, traded a few words, and moved on. I passed by without eating, but it may have been the single worst decision I made in this town.

My Tho on Google Map

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