A girl standing in front of a shop where floral-patterned mattress pads are piled up, covering her face tightly with both hands

Across the river from Yangon lies the town of Thanlyin. I found myself wandering through its local bazaar, known as Myoma Market. "Myoma" is not a proper noun but simply the Burmese term for a town's center. It is a naming convention that proves mildly perplexing to the uninitiated traveler, as practically every provincial town seems to claim its own "Myoma Market" as its central hub.

I first meandered through the wet market, only to find the stallkeepers impressively bereft of anything to do. If the fishmongers and greengrocers were enduring such profound boredom, I reasoned, the merchants peddling daily sundries further inside must be practically comatose. Drifting through aisles steeped in this palpable lethargy, I eventually stumbled upon a storefront flanked by towering stacks of vividly colored bedding.

Carelessly piled at the front were layers of gaudy, floral-patterned floor mattresses. The sight brought to mind the fleeting glimpses I had been afforded into the homes of the local residents. Perhaps it was merely because my hosts were of modest means, but every dwelling I had seen was remarkably austere; not a single room boasted a proper bed. While elevated, Western-style beds are a foregone conclusion in the hotels catering to foreigners like myself, they are by no means a fixture of the local lifestyle. Much like the older traditions of Japan, the prevailing practice here is to lay a mattress directly upon the floor. In a country that swelters year-round, perhaps stretching out on a well-ventilated bamboo floor is simply the most rational way to live.

More to pass the time than anything else, I leveled my camera at the young girl tasked with selling these flamboyant wares. Perhaps she was genuinely alarmed by the black mechanical contraption in the hands of a foreigner, for she instantly and forcefully buried her face in her hands. Clad in a pink polo shirt, she remained stubbornly hidden, refusing to offer even a fleeting peek through her fingers. I wondered if she harbored some antiquated superstition about photographs stealing a piece of one's soul—or perhaps my own unsavory demeanor had simply triggered her suspicion. Rather than indulging in some boorish, sentimental interpretation of her bashfulness, I simply accepted the composition for what it was. I framed the stark scene of her hidden face and quietly released the shutter.