A boy making a peace sign at the camera on the ferry deck, and a girl watching him

I boarded the massive ferry at the port of Yangon, Myanmar’s largest city, bound for the Dala district on the opposite bank. The vessel plies the muddy, turbulent waters of the Yangon River. Geographically speaking, however, this is merely one of the many sweeping distributaries formed at the mouth of the Ayeyarwady Delta—the great river that cleaves the country from north to south. In ancient Sanskrit, Ayeyarwady means "the Elephant River." True to its majestic name, the current churns up immense volumes of riverbed silt, coloring the water a deep, earthy brown. The crossing itself is a fleeting journey, lasting barely ten minutes. Yet, the decks were densely packed with an astonishing number of vendors targeting the wallets of commuting crowds. Balancing heavy baskets of fruit, snacks, and cold drinks deftly atop their heads, they bustled through the cramped passageways. Among them, it was common to see not only grown women but also surprisingly young boys and girls.

One of these young vendors, a small boy, caught sight of the boxy camera hanging from my neck. Dropping his sales face entirely, he darted straight toward me. Children in Myanmar are, as a rule, incredibly fond of being photographed; point a lens at them, and they often react with the pure, ecstatic joy of having discovered a rare spectacle. Sliding into position right in front of my lens, he thrust his right hand forward, proudly flashing a triumphant peace sign. His mischievous eyes sparkled with sheer delight.

Right behind him, standing captured in the background of his playful pose, was a young girl who had been selling goods alongside him moments before. Her cheeks were neatly painted with the pale, swirling patterns of thanakha. She stared intently at the boy as he monopolized my camera with triumphant glee, throwing me a look that was somewhere between envious longing and a faint, playful resentment.

Yangon on Google Map

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