The kid with the flower discovered me as I pondered through a packed, village market. He kept appearing, waving his hand and asking me to follow and then when I even looked at him he would disappear again into the crowds. Eventually he led me to a strange, small Buddhist temple just on the verge of the market and bordering the edge of the village. The ‘white paint’ on his cheeks is worn by many women, children and men, and translates as a part of the national identity.