Childhood

When does childhood get so mixed up?

The tiniest of children personify joy. As happy pushing a rock down a hill as playing with a shiny, state of the art toy, these are the kids that scream hello from the base of their lungs, and then giggle until they fall over. They wave so vigorously that I can't stop smiling, and they squeal in excitement when someone waves back.

That's how childhood should be.

There's primary school kids in navy shorts and white shorts, filing down to markets and shops to find their parents, and look after their napping siblings.

Turn around, and a child the same age is wearing kid-grubby, regular clothes, carrying old Jack Daniels bottles filled with sticky, yellow-tinged fuel to a wire rack on the road.

Head to Angkor Wat, and it's surrounding city of temples, and children swarm to you, stick to you. Bearing flutes, magnets, tshirts, water, bracelets. Reeling off facts about Australia, asking your name, begging you not to forget them, buy, buy, buy from me. Buy from me or I'll cry.

When do kids stop waving to pale skinned travellers and playing in the dirt, and start being a workhorse, a playback of beggar calls taught to them by their parents?

It makes me sad that they have to do that.