As the sun rises over Can Tho, Vietnam, the once-bustling Cai Rang Floating Market is a shadow of its former self. Once a symbol of southern Vietnam’s rich culture and heritage, the market now grapples with dwindling numbers, the results of rapid economic development, and shifting consumer habits.
A Historical Perspective
Cai Rang Floating Market, along with several others across the Mekong Delta, was established in the early 20th century when the waterways were the primary means for trade and transport. The delta’s intricate network of rivers facilitated this unique form of commerce, leading to markets where boats would converge to exchange goods. However, over the past two decades, the landscape has changed dramatically.
Currently, only two of the ten major floating markets in the region maintain a recognizable presence, according to local guides and vendors. “When I first visited Cai Rang in 2011, it was much larger,” says Linh, a local guide who led tours until recently. “Now it’s about a third of that size.” At its peak in the 1990s, Cai Rang boasted approximately 450 vessels, but today, around 200 boats make up the market. Nearby Phong Dien market has nearly vanished, reduced to fewer than a dozen boats that have largely disappeared from tourist itineraries. Meanwhile, Cai Be market in Ben Tre province closed permanently in 2021.
The Current State of Affairs
From a distance, Cai Rang appears to be a vibrant assembly of boats, but a closer look reveals its stark reality. The market’s charm is overshadowed by a significant number of tour boats, which have replaced traditional merchants. Despite the decline, the market still operates as it always has. Sampans are loaded with produce sourced from larger wholesalers before being transported to land-based markets.
Life on the river is vividly displayed through the daily routines of boat dwellers—washing dishes using river water, cooking meals over small stoves, or lounging in hammocks alongside children and pets. Yet, beneath this picturesque scene lies a struggle for survival.
“Business is not good,” shares Phuc, a vendor selling pineapples to tourists. She sometimes sells only ten pineapples a day at a price of 20,000 Vietnamese dong (approximately $0.78) each. “Only in high season can we make enough money; otherwise, we are barely surviving.”
Phuc and her husband Thanh previously operated as wholesalers, making weekly trips to Long An province near Ho Chi Minh City to replenish their stock. Their routine involved days of logistics that have become increasingly obsolete due to improved road infrastructure, making land trade quicker and cheaper. “The only people working here now are those who can’t afford to buy a van or a big car to deliver produce,” Thanh explains.
A Shift in Trades
Another vendor, Tuyen, who specializes in onions, garlic, and sweet potatoes, expresses similar concerns. “Ten years ago, my earnings were stable, but now it’s just enough to scrape by,” she laments while preparing breakfast on her boat. She attributes her struggles partly to the COVID-19 pandemic, which forced many sellers to transition to land-based operations. When asked why she remains on the river, Tuyen cites the high cost of renting a spot in a traditional market—around five million Vietnamese dong ($195)—as a barrier.
While improved roads are often blamed for the decline of floating markets, other contributing factors exist. Many smaller markets have yet to recover from temporary closures during the pandemic, while poor urban planning has compounded issues. Recent flood prevention measures implemented by local authorities involve constructing walls along the riverbanks, which, while effective in reducing flooding, have eliminated traditional piers necessary for river trade.
Cultural Changes and the Future
Beyond logistical challenges, broader cultural shifts threaten the market’s future. As Vietnam modernizes, younger generations are gravitating towards different career paths, distancing themselves from traditional trades. Phuc notes, “My daughter doesn’t want to work here. She prefers corporate life and investments.” This change in values places additional pressure on the viability of the floating market.
Despite these worries, the average resident of Can Tho seems unfazed by the fate of Cai Rang. Most locals now opt for supermarkets and malls for their shopping needs, leaving little incentive to visit the market. A hotel receptionist who wished to remain anonymous admitted, “For me, it’s nothing special,” having visited only once.
However, tourism remains vital to Can Tho’s economy, contributing approximately six percent of its revenue. In 2017, the city welcomed 7.5 million tourists, although numbers plummeted during the pandemic, recovering to just 5.9 million in 2023. Son Ca Huynh, a local tour operator, cites the scarcity of flights and repercussions from the pandemic as reasons for the reduced tourist influx. Without the floating market, the push to rejuvenate tourism could face further hurdles.
Seeking Solutions
Huynh believes there is hope for Cai Rang if it adopts a more tourist-centric approach, resembling the bustling floating markets of Bangkok, which sell varied products instead of primarily fruits and vegetables. However, she contends that government intervention is crucial to retain vendors and enhance their earnings, citing the need for new piers and facilities—a development she feels is unlikely given budget constraints.
“In my view, losing genuine authenticity and cultural value will be inevitable,” Huynh cautions regarding potential market transformations.
As the morning progresses and trade winds down, the atmosphere at Cai Rang begins to settle. Vendors relax on their houseboats as the sun climbs higher above the palm-fringed riverbanks. Still, for Linh the tour guide, optimism fades as she predicts the market’s closure within a few years. “Then I’ll have to look for a new job,” she reflects, underscoring the precariousness facing Cai Rang Floating Market amidst an ever-changing landscape.
