Borobudur: Seven Dollars Under the Java Sun

It was July in Central Java, and the sun was relentless. I’d been walking the grounds of Borobudur for hours, and the heat felt personal. My forehead was slick, my eyes squinting against the glare. I needed protection. As I was exiting the temple compounds, I spotted a roadside stall and eyed a bucket hat with the word Yogyakarta across the front and a cool pair of sunglasses. I envisioned myself walking like an ‘80s LL Cool J to the I’m Bad beat.

I was prepared to haggle. Engaging in a friendly manner is what you do in markets like that. But when the vendor quoted the price, seven dollars, I didn’t even feel the need. It was fair. More than fair. I smiled, handed over the cash, the beat kicked in, and I began my strut. Like the music, no one else heard when I said, “Dang, that’s cheap.” Yes, I talk out loud to myself. Suddenly, the imaginary record scratched and my words sat there.

In my world, seven dollars barely covers a sandwich. It’s a casual expense, something you swipe for without thinking. But at that moment, I realized I was standing in a different economy. One where seven dollars might mean a day’s wages and my words might be insulting. I didn’t want to come off sounding like a wannabe big shot. The thought flashed in my mind: who am I in this market, really?

I’ve studied economics (Go UCF Knights!). I understand exchange rates, cost structures, purchasing power. I know my dollar stretches farther in Indonesia. But I also know that higher incomes back home come with higher costs: rent, insurance, utilities. “Dang, that’s cheap,” was less about privilege and more about context. In the wrong neighborhood, that slip could cost a lot more than seven dollars, if you know what I mean. Fortunately, I was amongst good people.

It’s natural to travel with our home economy in mind. That’s probably why I overlooked that money doesn’t mean the same thing everywhere. What feels like pocket change to one person might cover a local family’s groceries for a few days. Prices, wages, even the meaning of comfort all shift once you cross a border. Sometimes visiting other places nudges us to reexamine our values, and this moment was a gentle push towards valuing the effort each price represents for the people who live there. Since then, I picked up a small habit of researching local wages before I travel.

I lost the sunglasses and hat the next day. I think they were accidentally left behind in the hotel. The moment, however, stayed. It made me consider how I move through places that aren’t mine. It reminded me of a different exchange, one of the reasons I love to travel: perspective.