As Vendors Struggle, Is the Iconic Market Losing Its Vibrancy?
A haunting silence envelops Chatuchak Market today, making me feel more like I’m wandering through a ghost town than a vibrant marketplace. Just a few years ago, a Saturday afternoon would be bustling with domestic and international shoppers eagerly ready to spend, but that lively atmosphere has vanished. I double-check my phone to confirm that it’s indeed Saturday.
As I navigate through the 27 zones of this sprawling market, I realize that the absence of crowds makes it easier to explore. I’ve become so familiar with the layout that I doubt I’ll ever get lost again—even if the market were to fill up once more with shoppers eager to browse, bargain, and soak in the lively ambiance that once defined this Bangkok landmark.
Many business owners at the once-busy Chatuchak are desperately trying to stay afloat, hoping for the day when tourists and shoppers return to this iconic open-air shopping destination. The COVID-19 pandemic has hit Thailand’s tourism sector hard, and the government’s mismanagement has left many vendors with no choice but to either permanently close their stalls or suspend operations. For many, remaining open costs more than it earns.
More Sellers Than Buyers
My first stop this afternoon is a stall selling hemp-sack bags near the clock tower. Toom, the owner, explains that she can afford to keep her shop open because she lives nearby, eliminating the commuting hassle. She has witnessed the significant changes firsthand.
“Thanks to news about more vaccinations, it’s busier than two weeks ago,” she claims.
“Did you say busier?” I ask, both of us sharing an awkward laugh as the scorching sun beats down on us.
“This is busy! I’ve been here every weekend,” she insists, but I can’t help but notice the lack of customers—fewer than 20 have passed since I arrived.
“I never thought I’d see a market with more sellers than buyers,” I comment.
“They’re our hope, but not because I expect them to buy anything. I just hope to see more of them. My focus today is on how many people come by, not who makes a purchase,” Toom shares when I ask about her feelings on the sparse crowd.
Toom reflects on moments when it felt like things were returning to normal, only to be dashed by news of new outbreaks, plunging Chatuchak back into silence.
“Some vendors were just getting back on their feet, like the food stall owner across from me. He tried. When you see this tough guy cry, it’s just…” Toom struggles to finish her thought. After a brief pause, she continues, acknowledging the unique challenges food vendors face, calling it a sunk cost. “Fresh produce eventually spoils. No customers mean no sales, leading to no income. But they still have rent and salaries to cover.”
Survival Mode
A stone’s throw away from Toom’s stall, Luh-aw sells vibrant, lightweight garments that once captivated tourists. She remains open out of fear of losing her customer base, hoping they might stop by. “I can’t afford to take out another loan. If I went to the bank today, they’d deny me. They doubt I can repay,” Luh-aw explains, noting that her children’s tuition adds to her financial burden.
“We had a brief resurgence with the ‘We Win’ campaign. Everyone was so excited!” she exclaims, her hands animated. “But that lasted all of two weeks before we were back to this.”
I also meet Rune, a cleaning lady who has just returned from collecting garbage. She finds her job more manageable with fewer sellers and even fewer buyers.
“How much garbage do you collect in a round?” I ask.
“One full bag,” she replies, gesturing to the area she covers—about one-sixth of the market.
“And before?”
“Oh! I used to fill one of those big carts, like the ones at hospitals, by the time I reached the clock tower,” she recalls, pointing out the tower a mere 50 meters away.
Rune mentions that garbage collection now feels more like a scavenger hunt. With trash less prevalent, she has to search for it, and though she finds this shift manageable, it’s bittersweet. She misses the days when her work meant job security.
One Customer for the Day
Chatuchak’s vendors come from all over Thailand, not just Bangkok. The market resembles a post-apocalyptic scene as countless business owners have decided not to make the journey to avoid additional costs. For example, an artisan from Chiang Rai is unwilling to drive more than 10 hours to Bangkok with uncertain sales prospects.
Even noodle shop owners Pook and A. from Ayutthaya, just an hour away, are unsure about their profitability. However, with dining-in options back, they opted to reopen their shop. “You can either go broke or break even, but we would definitely go under if we didn’t reopen,” A. states, his tone somber as the sky begins to darken.
Typically, Chatuchak is teeming with shoppers on a Saturday evening. Not today. Without customers, the market would be deserted.
“It wasn’t always like this. After 4 pm, it used to be packed. People would be walking shoulder to shoulder,” A. reminisces before cleaning up after what was likely their last customer of the day. They plan to close by 7 pm, and though I’m curious, I hesitate to ask how many bowls they’ve sold.
Since they’re not from Bangkok and daily commutes seem impractical, Pook and A. have rented a stall for their stay. After tidying up, they lead me to their modest sleeping quarters.
A Community Lost
“This used to be a village, a community. We would eat and sleep here, side by side,” A. explains as he guides me through the market. He points to the once-bustling area that now lies silent and lifeless.
“After the market closed, we’d pack up. Each vendor would bring our specialties: noodle soup, Hainanese chicken rice, Thai dishes. We’d sit together, talk, shower, sleep, and start the cycle again. Now, there’s none of that,” Pook adds.
It doesn’t take long to reach their bedroom, located in another market stall. They turn on the ceiling lights, illuminating the darkened area in Zone 20. Standing outside their unit, I glance around and see only dark paths stretching into the unknown.
After spending a day at Chatuchak, I wouldn’t be exaggerating to call it a ghost town. Closed stalls, dim alleyways, and sparse streetlights leave little visibility. The few who remain have either left temporarily or closed for good. Yet, A. and Pook cling to hope for the return of their neighbors.
“It’s strange. Saturday nights used to be filled with joy,” Pook reflects. “Every vendor would join in on conversations and laughter. We were happy. Now? It’s nothing but shadows.”
