In the shade of a tree sat an old man crouched.
I was in Lewe, a friendly little town in the southeast of Myanmar, formerly Burma. The old man had a heavy but handy rock in his right hand, in his lap a collection of old batteries. Carefully, one by one, the batteries were crushed and the contents pried loose from the carcass.
“What are you doing?” My Burmese is mediocre, as his English turned out to be. “I’m collecting the contents of these batteries.” Of course, it was clear to me. But a conversation has to start somewhere. “This goes in the ground over there,” said the old man, pointing to the small field further on. Apparently I looked at him questioningly, so he got up with difficulty. He shuffled ahead of me to the piece of land with rows of young tomato plants. “Here, in the ground.” To make it even more understandable, he dug a fist-sized hole at the base of a plant. “That way the tomatoes will grow bigger.” At the word ‘bigger’ he visualized a more or less exploding tomato with his bony hands. “Kaunde,” I heard him say. I knew that word. “Tasty,” or “very nice.”
He really didn't understand my reaction, the old man. The shudder must have been visible on my Western face. Then I saw the error of my own perception. How can you not be happy with enormous tomatoes in a country of scarcity?