After dark, Bangkok’s Pak Khlong Talat becomes a vast flower theatre. Trucks unload roses, orchids and marigolds by the armful; porters steer towering trolleys through narrow passages; and vendors turn thousands of small blossoms into garlands before dawn. It is fragrant, colourful and surprisingly hazardous for anyone inclined to stop in the middle of it all with a camera.
It took me three visits to discover that even a market open around the clock can be visited at the wrong time. On my first afternoon at Pak Khlong Talat, Bangkok’s famous flower market appeared to be resting. On my second attempt, it was awake but hardly performing the floral spectacle I had imagined. I began to suspect that the photographs of mountains of roses had been produced by an unusually optimistic tourist board.
For my third attempt, I arrived shortly before midnight. This time, Pak Khlong Talat was wide awake. Trucks pulled in one after another, and large plastic bags and bamboo baskets began spilling onto the roadside. Within minutes, ordinary pavements disappeared beneath roses, orchids, lotus buds and marigolds. Bangkok had apparently decided that subtlety was unnecessary.
Pak Khlong Talat is Bangkok’s largest wholesale and retail flower market, supplying the city with vast quantities of fresh flowers every night.
It takes its name from its location near the point where canals once met the Chao Phraya River. In Thai, pak means “mouth”, khlong means “canal”, and talat means “market” – literally, “the market at the mouth of the canal”, a reminder of the waterways that shaped this part of the city. Its trading history stretches back for centuries.
Pak Khlong Talat wasn’t always a flower market. In the 18th century, it began as a floating market and later became a fish market. When Bangkok authorities decided to get rid of the smell of fish in the city centre, they relocated the fish trade, and flowers gradually took its place. The fish are gone; the market has kept the bustle and improved the perfume.
The flowers arrived from farms near Bangkok and from provinces much farther north. Pick-up trucks, tuk-tuks and motorbikes approached from every direction, many carrying loads that seemed to exceed both their dimensions and their better judgement. Between them, food vendors pushed carts of pork skewers and papaya salad through gaps that did not appear to exist until they entered them.
Inside the warehouse-like market, porters in rubber boots drove trolleys piled high with flowers through narrow aisles. They moved quickly and with absolute purpose. I moved less quickly, distracted by everything, and repeatedly discovered that the shortest route between a trolley and its destination ran directly through me.
The flowers looked delicate; the work surrounding them was anything but. Vendors stripped away old leaves, trimmed stems, rearranged bundles and packed crushed ice around unopened buds. The floor became a slippery mixture of petals, leaves and melting ice. Photographing it required one eye on the composition and the other on the next trolley. Apparently, I could manage only one of these tasks at a time.
Amid the activity, some vendors slept beside their stock, capable of ignoring wheels, engines and several tonnes of arriving vegetation. Others played cards, smoked or chatted while waiting for the buyers. Around them, the market continued assembling itself for the night, basket by basket.
The quantities were difficult to absorb. Roses were sold not as romantic gestures but in bundles large enough to suggest a serious administrative error on Valentine’s Day. Orchids appeared in every possible shade, and sacks of jasmine filled the air with their fragrance. Many of the blossoms were destined for more than decoration.
Women sat threading jasmine buds, roses and orange marigolds into phuang malai, the traditional Thai garlands offered at shrines, presented to honoured guests and hung inside taxis for blessing and protection. Their fingers moved with a speed and precision that made the work look effortless, which is generally how very difficult work disguises itself.
Nearby were bai sri – elaborate ceremonial arrangements formed from folded banana leaves and flowers. Every leaf was rolled, bent and placed into a carefully balanced structure. Their precise folding made me feel slightly inadequate – I could barely wrap an ordinary box without using half a roll of tape.
As midnight gave way to early morning, buyers began to arrive in greater numbers. Bundles changed hands, trolleys accelerated, and the aisles grew tighter. I stopped trying to understand where the market began or ended. It occupied buildings, pavements and surrounding streets, spreading through the neighbourhood as though Bangkok itself had started to bloom.
I wandered among the flowers wondering what I could reasonably carry away. The honest answer was almost nothing. The tempting answer was ten kilograms of roses.
As I was leaving, an elderly vendor smiled and placed a fragrant rose-and-jasmine garland in my hands for good luck. After two mistimed visits, a night spent dodging trolleys and a narrow escape from buying ten kilograms of roses, I felt I had earned it.
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