I worry. I worry about the little things. I worry about my weight and how much I’ve put on over the Christmas holidays. I worry whether my clothes still fit. I worry whether the clothes I wear even match. What about the shoes? Do the shoes match my clothes? I worry about bigger things. I worry about my car and whether it will live until its next service. I worry about work and whether I will get enough of it. I worry about paying the bills. I worry about the mortgage. What if I have to sell my house?
I’ve always worried. When I was younger, I always thought I would end up with a stomach ulcer by the time I was in my 20’s.
Then I went to Thailand. I was working in Bangkok and lived close to the Mekong River. Many weekends, I would walk down to the river. I’d lean against a filthy railing and watch people rushing from the boats. The river had the worst stink I have ever smelled. The water was thick. It was a deep brown colour, until the motor of a boat unsettled the bottom and a thick, black sludge rose to the surface. The sight of mouldy vegetables drifting with the current was common. The surface was littered with countless plastic bags, straws and drinking bottles. Sometimes, I’d see a dead, bloated cat float past. The sight of dead fish, bobbing on the surface was never a surprise.
The river was so busy. An endless stream of ferries spewed people onto the wharf, before throwing out streams of black smoke and moving off down the river once more. Most of the boats were ancient ferries, paint peeling and overcrowded. Beside the larger boats were the long boats. These were the longer, narrow boats with a canvas roof offering shelter from the steamy Bangkok heat. The boats carried the locals through the canals- the klongs. They carried the locals to the shops, temples and their work. In the afternoon, the klong boats carried them home again.
Tourists used the long boats to explore the narrow klongs running off the Mekong. After negotiations of payment, the driver would start his engine, navigate his way across the busy Mekong and pull into one of the canals. The first time I sat on a long boat, I held onto the side of the boat and closed my mouth tightly in a desperate attempt to stop the Mekong from splashing into my mouth.
The first thing I noticed was the poverty. The extreme poverty. The houses were made from scraps of timber and scavenged pieces of tin. The poorest of the houses were built under the bridges. These houses didn’t require a roof. Klong houses were built on stilts that rose shakily from the muddy depths of the canal. Each time a boat moved passed the houses, they rocked gently as the wash hit the stilts. Open windows invited in the stench of the putrid river. Doors opened out to the water, lapping on the front step.
As I looked closer, I started to really see the houses. Each one had the King’s yellow flag and the Thai National flag. The flags were flapping gently in the river breeze. Every home had a big potted plant at the doorstep. Colourful flowers spilled out from the pot, welcoming home the family.
And then... I noticed the boys. The klong boys. These boys were diving, splashing, leaping and jumping into the river. The water glistened off their wet, brown skin. Their shaved heads sparkled as the water was shaken from their very short hair. They laughed and played. And they smiled. These boys had smiles that were so wide they bounced from the sides of the canals and into my long boat. Their smiles lit up my world.
On seeing a foreigner in their canal, they would yell out “Hello!” and dive back into the water, laughing and teasing each other. I always answered. I always raised my hand and yelled their greeting back at them. They would scream with joy and push each other under the water in excitement. Sometimes, there was a brave boy amongst them. He would cry out “I love you!” before leaping back into the safety of the canal. I would always answer. I would always say that I loved them, too. Those simple words would send the boys into somersaults of joy. Their smiles would widen.
These boys won’t have to worry about how chocolate and wine have added to their waistline, because these boys will probably never eat or drink these pleasures. These boys will never have to worry about whether their clothes match and are appropriate for different occasions... they probably only have a couple of sets of clothes. These boys won’t have to worry about whether their shoes match their clothes, because they probably only have two pairs of shoes.
They won’t have to worry about their car – I doubt they will ever be able to afford one. They will have to worry about work. They will have to worry about where they will live – but these boys will never live in anything like my home.
These boys have so much less than me... and yet, they have so much more.
When I start to worry, I try to think back to the klong boys... the boys who live in houses made from scavenged timber... the boys whose homes shake when a boat drifts past... the boys who sleep above the stench of the Mekong... the boys who were born into families of poverty... the boys with the biggest smiles I have ever seen.
The boys who showed me how to put things into perspective.
