The river boat man

Right after going to see Angor Wat (and the other surrounding ruins), we went on a boat ride down a river just outside Siem Reap (the town we’re staying in near Angkor Wat). We all file into a wooden tourist boat and head down the river. I’m excited, thinking that it’s beautiful to be able to be on the river at sunset, where the weather is pleasant.and we’re away from the crowds. Most of the people on the tour file into the main cabin, putting on their life vests and sitting quietly in their wooden chairs, but I head to the back, noticing a bench with a beautiful, unobstructed view out the boat. I feel a soft breeze whispering by. The setting sun is casting a splash of sheer champagne with a veil of rose. Aah!

Before I know it, a much smaller sampan-like boat approaches and a young girl, no more than 8 years old, leaps onto our boat “Ooh, a staged pirate attack, how fun!” I think, before realizing that she’s carrying a basket of soda and bananas, to sell to the rich tourists (us) for “one dollar, please.” Suddenly, we have six of these tiny skin-and-bones children on our boat. Their skin is a leathery tan from their (at this point less than ten) years of living on the river, constantly exposed to the elements. One little boy approaches me, lifting a soda can with an arm no wider around than my wrist and a plaintive, “One dollar, please.” His deep brown eyes plea, “With a dollar, maybe I could eat tonight.”

A well of emotions is starting to bubble up. These children must live like this daily, begging for just enough food to make it through another day. Is there any hope for their lives to change? What have they done to deserve a life like this? It seems so unfair that some people should live in such poverty while others watch on with an inability to truly help — or worse yet, with indifference. What do they think of their lives? And what do they think of us?

The children realize that they have sold everything that they are going to sell and one by one start to make their way off the boat, leaping off and landing expertly on their sampans. Just as the last boat is pulling away, a young woman on my boat realizes she has a few dollars left and reaches over the side of our boat to hand the dollar to a man rowing one of the riverboats. They’re both reaching toward each other, but our boat is moving quickly. The man reaches a little farther to grasp the dollar. And the woman reaches a little farther. But the man in the riverboat reaches a little too far and I see him falling, as if in slow motion, with every ounce of strength he has toward that dollar bill. His head goes underwater next to our boat and I’m all too aware of our boat’s motor whirring under him as he sinks underwater.

The young woman’s eyes well over with silent tears and she whispers, “for a dollar… he risked his life for a dollar…”

A moment later, the man surfaces, swimming desperately back to his sampan. Will he live another year, I wonder. And does he think his life is worth it?