Making Kids Cry

23.Aug.2013

Lesson learned: never give your name to a young souvenir tout. With two days left on my visit to Myanmar and only a 7^th of my budget left to spend, I’m trying to learn to say no, but I think I might have nightmares because of it. This evening, after a long day of more temple touring, I went on a sunset cruise along the Ayarwaddy River. When we embarked, there was a crowd of people trying to sell me souvenirs, and I told all of them, “no, thank you.” One young boy said, “maybe later,” to which I didn’t even reply. He asked where I was from and what my name was; he was probably about 10 years old.

 

My guide and I drifted along the river watching the sunset behind the hills and drinking gin and watermelon juice. The local villagers were bathing and washing clothes in the river. Babies in their mothers’ arms waved as we passed by. Young boys would seemingly appear from nowhere as they jumped from the treetops into the river. The traditional longyi, a type of sarong worn by the men here, doubled as a towel for the guys to dry off after their dip in the river. The simple bamboo floors of their houses would have likely splintered under my weight. They didn’t have much, but they were all smiling, laughing, and enjoying life for what it is. I chose not to take any pictures because I felt like it was an intrusion on the privacy of the villagers, and I selfishly wanted to take in their smiles through my own two eyes and not the lens of a camera.

Once the saffron colored sun had disappeared behind the horizon, we headed quickly back to the riverside. The sales team was out in force to welcome me back to dry land, but I held firm and told them all no. As I climbed into the van, I heard the voice of the young boy running towards me crying out my name. “But I waited for you! Please don’t leave!” It crushed me to drive away hearing him still

calling out to me by name. My guide seemed somehow proud of me for finally saying no to someone, but it felt like a punch to the gut each time the boy cried out my name. Just thinking about it again makes me want to grab a ride back to the river right now to give him the dollar he wanted for his postcards. It’s difficult to admit, but I look forward to returning to Austria where I can callously ignore people asking for money since most of them honestly have little appreciation for all that they have.

Now, I am laying in my bed listening to the sound of the man playing a wooden xylophone at the hotel restaurant. Sounds are such an integral part of the travel experience for me. I can’t imagine being in a new place and having my ears plugged with headphones and my iPod blaring. If it were just about seeing a place, one could sit at home and look at photos on the internet. No, traveling is about experiencing a place. Feeling the heavy sticky heat, smelling wafts of shrimp paste and pickled tealeaves, and earing the clickety-clack of the boat motors over the laughter of children and the chimes of the temples. Drowning out real life with the sounds one listens to day after day is wasteful of life’s gifts. Some people get bored without music, but, as much as I love music, I believe the sounds around us can be far more entertaining. You just have to learn to relax and listen. Hear sounds, identify them, and try to visualize them. It’s a sport of the mind that will engrave everlasting memories into your brain. Sadly, I am going to drift off to sleep hearing a young postcard salesman yelling my name, hoping to earn just one dollar from my pocket.