When the Palengke to Supermarket Journey Becomes Memory
A slab of bangus on crushed ice. Meltwater pooling under the tail. Beside it, a mound of tomatoes still clinging to their stems, uneven in color. Some bruised, some shining. The smell hits first—no, wait, sharper than that. Salt and fish, then something leafy, wet. A boy balances a basket of calamansi on his head, shouting a price that shifts mid-sentence when he notices you watching. This is the palengke as it was. Crowded, noisy, always near chaos. And now, slowly fading in the long palengke to supermarket journey.
The walk through the lanes had its own rhythm. One step to avoid a dripping hose. Two steps sideways for the woman with kangkong bundles slapping against her thigh. Money folded small, hidden in the palm. Never in the wallet. Bills damp from passing between too many hands. The edges curled, carrying the faint sourness of ginger, or vinegar, or—closer to that sting left on fingers after peeling green mango.
The palengke was not only where families bought food. It was where news moved. Where one learned the price of galunggong alongside the rumor of a neighbor’s new tricycle loan. Each stall claimed its corner. The butcher with his cleaver raised mid-air. The taho vendor drifting between lanes. The rice dealer with sacks piled high, smelling of husk and dust.
But now. The rhythm has broken.
Supermarkets rise with air-conditioning and fluorescent order. Plastic trays sealed in film. Tomatoes sorted by size. Fish already gutted. The smell reduced to something almost clean, almost nothing. Online platforms deliver in an hour: tap, add to cart, wait for the rider. The palengke to supermarket shift offers convenience in exchange for the stumble, the mess, the small talk.
Older shoppers welcome the relief. Dry floors, printed prices, no bargaining needed. Younger ones carry only faint memories of palengke visits. Their last trip blurs. Was it before the new mall opened? Or during the months when face masks made markets unbearable? Some may never know the shock of wet slippers on a palengke floor.
Still, the palengke lingers. In language: punta tayo sa palengke, though the destination is now a grocery. In taste. A grilled tilapia recalls the vendor who slipped an extra calamansi into the bag. In memory of bargaining, of voices calling suki! across the aisle. Memory works like vinegar. Preserving. Sharp, lasting.
There is a contradiction. Once dismissed as dirty, disorganized, too old-fashioned. Now declared heritage. Architects draw proposals for covered markets with neat drains. Writers praise them as “living museums.” Yet the same people often choose comfort. And in that choice, the palengke to supermarket transition grows sharper, framed as progress but also as quiet loss.
The fading is uneven. In small towns, dawn markets still hum. In the cities, stalls shrink, pressed close by malls and apps. The danger is not disappearance but invisibility. The palengke slips to the edges until nobody looks.
One last visit comes to mind. A quick errand for miso and mustard greens. The taho vendor was there, older now, slower. A child tugging at his sleeve. Impatient. The rice seller measured with her hand. No scale. Each scoop based on memory and trust. She knew which family wanted sinandomeng and who always asked for dinorado. That kind of knowledge cannot be uploaded, not yet.
Walking out with plastic bags heavy, the sounds still clung. A clanging ladle. A rooster somewhere. The wet slap of fish on wood. That clamor was daily life once. Now it drifts into recollection. Not gone, not fully. Preserved in stories, in food rituals, in the quiet act of cooking rice the way she measured it. The last palengke visit folds into the larger palengke to supermarket story, unfinished, like a vendor’s call dissolving into traffic noise.
