The Sound of Scenery

Manni (Manfred) had been retired for several years when he decided to do something he had dreamed of since his younger days—see the world at his own pace. With no rush and no schedule, he began a slow and thoughtful journey, one country at a time. It wasn’t a quest to check off landmarks or collect passport stamps. For Manni, this was something deeper—a quiet celebration of life’s second act, guided not by itinerary, but by feeling.

He had spent decades working in logistics, building a life based on precision, structure, and planning. But now, in this chapter of freedom, he welcomed the unpredictable. What surprised even himself was how central music had become to that journey. On his last birthday, his daughter gave him a small, beautiful kalimba—a warm walnut wood instrument with a simple charm. It was compact enough to fit easily in his pack, but powerful in its ability to soothe and inspire.

What made this gift even more unique was that Manni had never studied music theory. He wasn’t trained in rhythm, scale, or harmony. Years ago, he had fiddled with a violin for a short while, but he never pursued it beyond the basics. Still, something about the kalimba clicked immediately. The way it responded gently to touch, the soft chime of each note, the meditative, almost hypnotic quality of its sound—it invited not performance, but presence. It didn’t require perfection, just sincerity.

Now, in his travels through Asia, the kalimba rarely left his side. He carried it wrapped in a scarf in the top section of his worn canvas backpack, nestled safely next to his notebook and a pair of sunglasses. In each new town or village, he would spend time walking through markets, watching rivers flow beneath bridges, or sitting beneath ancient trees. He observed the textures and colors of each place—the haze over a rice field at sunrise, the gold-leafed rooftops of distant temples, the orange lanterns swinging softly in a coastal breeze. And when a certain feeling struck him, he would find a quiet spot, pull out the kalimba, and begin to play.

He called it “playing,” but to him, it wasn’t really about creating music in a traditional sense. He never followed scales or tried to mimic songs. Instead, he let his thumbs move instinctively over the metal tines, chasing sounds that matched the mood of the moment. Sometimes he would hum softly as he played, other times just listen to the echo of his notes bouncing off nearby walls or rippling through open air.

To an outsider, it might have seemed abstract, maybe even random. But to Manni, it was a form of painting—with sound instead of color. If a lakeside town felt still and pale blue, his playing would become slow and minimal, with longer pauses between notes. If a bustling hillside village was bursting with energy and laughter, his fingers would move faster, more playfully. He believed that each place had its own unspoken “music,” and his job was simply to try and echo it.

It didn’t take long before locals began to notice.

In a small mountain town in northern Vietnam, he sat on a stone ledge near a tea shop, playing gently while watching clouds drift over terraced hills. One by one, people gathered—first a few children, then shopkeepers and passersby. No one spoke his language, but smiles were exchanged, and before long, someone handed him a cup of hot green tea in a delicate ceramic cup. When he finished his song, the crowd applauded, not loudly, but warmly. It was a simple moment, but it stuck with him.

In Thailand, near the ruins of an old temple complex, he played in the shade of a tamarind tree while the afternoon heat shimmered in the distance. A monk paused on his way down the path, listened for a while, and nodded appreciatively. In Kyoto, Japan, while seated on a bench near a koi pond, his music attracted a woman who later handed him a small folded paper crane. They didn’t exchange a single word, but he kept the crane in his journal, pressed between pages filled with notes and memories.

Though language often failed to bridge the gap between Manni and those around him, music filled the space in between. It was never flashy or dramatic, just sincere and curious. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. He was simply reacting to the world with the only voice he felt truly comfortable using: the soft ringing voice of his kalimba.

He admitted to himself more than once that he hadn’t expected to find such comfort in the company of strangers. In earlier years, the thought of traveling solo might have seemed lonely. But now, with each new town, each melody inspired by a different landscape, and each round of unexpected applause, he felt connected. Not in the sense of making deep friendships or forming lasting bonds—but in the shared human moment of listening and being listened to.

The kalimba had become more than just an instrument—it was his mirror, his translator, his companion. It allowed him to pour his impressions and emotions into the world without needing to explain or justify them. He didn’t need to be “good” at playing. He just needed to feel something—and then follow the sound wherever it wanted to go.

As he traveled further south toward the islands of Indonesia, Manni looked forward to what each new shoreline or jungle path might inspire. He didn’t know what kind of song the ocean breeze or the rhythm of city scooters might call out of him next. But he was ready to listen. Ready to play.

And perhaps, most importantly, ready to be surprised.