A Market In Northern Thailand

They are not from Chiang Mai, they are a tribal people who speak a hill language. They ride through the night on bicycles to settle at dawn beside the Ping River. Girls' unroll rattan mats squat beside straw hats brimful with the tang of burgundy chilies They have vegetables grown in lime green waters, parched salty anchovies, and plump spearheads of opalescent fish - all these are bargained for, bundled in newspaper, tied with pink raffia. Our lives cross here. A few coins dropped into an open palm, nods and smiles by a river, a common currency bridging alien worlds.