“My friend, my friend, buy from me a key chain!”

In a place where white sand beaches meet the warm blue waters of the Indian Ocean, buying a souvenir key chain or a refrigerator magnet from pushy hawkers is the last thing on my mind.  I try to be polite, recognizing that they probably have families to feed, but their persistence tries my patience and eventually my only escape is to ignore them and walk away. 

Each morning, in the half-light of dawn, I slip away from the lavish confines of our resort and go to the beach to watch the sun greet the flooding tide.  Dinghies carved from tree trunks are anchored offshore.  They bob in lethargic unison as the swells gently lift them up and down over and over again.  Crabs, delicate and cautious, scamper away and disappear into their hidden homes as I approach; I am their first of many unwelcome guests today.  I find a quiet spot beneath some palm trees and wait.

The clouds are gray at first, then, in an instant, the entire sky is on fire with a thousand shades of purple, orange, and red.  The light and the waves rush to meet each other like old friends and their reunion is a reflection, a beam of happiness, which stretches from the shore where I stand to the horizon in the distance.  It's perfect.  But nature is often shy of her beauty, and the moment is gone as quickly as it came.

Everything is calm, but I am not alone.  I look northward and see a solitary figure, barely discernible in the distance, steadily making it's way toward me.

I look away, hoping it’s not a vendor of key chains.  A few minutes later, the figure is closer now, and my heart sinks as I see that its a man carrying a small plastic bag--a bag full of silly trinkets to sell to me, no doubt.  I'm annoyed at the prospect of being heckled this early in the morning, especially after seeing such a wonderful sunrise.

The man is walking straight toward me now.  I know he's going to try to sell me something.  His t-shirt is ripped and full of holes, revealing protruding ribs covered by skin that is weathered and worn from spending too much time in the sun.  A strap on one of his cheap plastic sandals is broken, causing the sole to jut out to one side.  I’m almost certain he’s a vendor, except he seems too old and frail.

I can see his white teeth gleam in the sunlight as he smiles at me.  His eyes are kind, yet tired.  I politely smile but quickly look away, just to make it clear that I don't want to be bothered by whatever it is he is selling.

When he is only a few feet away, he whispers “Hello.”  I give him a short “Hi,” in reply and continue to ignore him, staring off into the ocean but fully expecting a persistent sales pitch.  Surprisingly, he quietly moves past me and climbs up the small dirt embankment directly behind me.  Stunned that he didn't try to sell me something, I curiously turn to see what this old man is up to.

         “There are moments in every person’s life when our judgments of character are so far removed from the truth that the undressing of our silly ignorance shames the soul with such force that you never forget the guilt of that moment.”

This was one such moment.

       The old man took off his sandals, knelt down in the dirt, and from his plastic bag removed not key chains and refrigerator magnets, but a small shovel and a bundle of wilted flowers.  Tenderly, he untangled the stems, laid them out in a row, and started preparing the soil.  His garden plot was small but well kept.  Flowers, vegetables and other plants grew without any fences. 

He looked up at me and smiled broadly again; I tried to smile back. 

        I wish now that I could tell you about my conversation with him; what words of wisdom he shared with me, or maybe an meaningful story from his past. He gave me no stories, but a lesson.