What a misstep on a remote farm in Myanmar taught me about leadership, listening, and last-mile sales The Morning That Felt Different It was the kind of morning I’ve come to know well in rural Myanmar’s dry zone—quiet, golden, and already heavy with heat. The overnight bus from Yangon had dropped me in Magway at 4 a.m. The streets were still asleep, save for the occasional trishaw gliding past. I rented a small motorbike, found a local tea shop that was just beginning to stir, and waited for the first light with a cup of sweet, thick Burmese tea. I’d done this countless times—early field visits that began in silence and dust, long before any office opened. But this visit felt different. I wasn’t here to just observe or support. I was here to quietly assess one of our most promising team leads. Meet “Spiky Head” Everyone on the team called him Spiky Head —a nickname earned as much for his wild, uncombed hair as for his sharp, unfiltered energy. He had outsold everyone in the regi...
The Morning That Felt Different
It was the kind of morning I’ve come to know well in rural Myanmar’s dry zone—quiet, golden, and already heavy with heat.
The overnight bus from Yangon had dropped me in Magway at 4 a.m. The streets were still asleep, save for the occasional trishaw gliding past. I rented a small motorbike, found a local tea shop that was just beginning to stir, and waited for the first light with a cup of sweet, thick Burmese tea.
I’d done this countless times—early field visits that began in silence and dust, long before any office opened. But this visit felt different.
I wasn’t here to just observe or support.
I was here to quietly assess one of our most promising team leads.
Meet “Spiky Head”
Everyone on the team called him Spiky Head—a nickname earned as much for his wild, uncombed hair as for his sharp, unfiltered energy. He had outsold everyone in the region, coached reps on the fly, and built a reputation for going the extra mile—literally. Longer distances. Tougher deals. Stronger results.
But experience has taught me this:
Great sales reps don’t always make great leaders.
This visit wasn’t about metrics. It was about observing whether Spiky could lead beyond himself. Could he turn raw sales instinct into something deeper—into leadership that lifts others?
A Day in the Field
By 8:30 a.m., Spiky pulled up on his bike, wearing his usual grin and dusty boots. I hopped on the back, and we rode into Minbu Township, past the bubbling mud volcanoes and mango trees in bloom.
We met his sales reps and got into the rhythm—door-to-door, plot-to-plot. Spiky was in his element. He coached. He encouraged. He nudged. He didn’t take over—he guided.
By sunset, they’d closed more than ten contracts.
I could have ended the day there and called it a win.
But that’s not when you know someone is ready for leadership.
The Misstep: When Instinct Goes Too Far
On the way back, we passed a line of small chicken farms. Spiky slowed and shouted to his team, “Go talk to the farmer! Push the onion tanks—they need water!”
Momentum was high. Confidence even higher.
I held back, letting them work. But from a distance, I saw something they missed: a farmer chopping bamboo, his rhythm steady—and then louder. A silent signal.
The team didn’t see it. They kept selling.
I circled around the farm. And there it was:
A brand-new 2,000-gallon tank already installed. Gleaming.
No wonder the farmer wasn’t buying.
By the time I returned, the conversation had gone cold. Spiky had stepped in, trying to rescue the pitch, but the chopping had turned into a warning.
Turning the Moment Around
I stepped forward.
“May I?” I asked Spiky. He nodded, surprised—I rarely intervened.
I turned to the farmer:
“I noticed a plot of land next to your coop—what are you planning to grow?”
The farmer paused. “Onions,” he said. “Four acres.”
“Would you mind showing me? I’ve never seen onion plots this size here. Maybe I can learn something.”
And just like that, the dynamic shifted.
We walked side by side through the dust. He opened up about his planting timeline, his frustrations with input costs, and his fears about the dry season.
Only after listening did I ask:
“If I could show you a solution that costs half of what you're planning to spend and helps you double your yield—would you like to hear about it?”
He stopped. Looked at me.
“Yes,” he said.
Ten minutes later, we shook hands on the 11th contract of the day.
Debrief at Dusk: The Real Lesson
Back at a roadside teashop, I let Spiky lead the debrief.
“What went well today?” I asked. His team shared highlights. Wins. The farmer with the bamboo.
Then Spiky looked at me.
“What did I miss?”
“You did everything right,” I said. “Except one thing—you didn’t ask what he needed.”
He listened. Quietly.
“You trusted your gut. You saw a chicken farm and thought: water tank. But you didn’t verify. You didn’t look. And when you told the team to push, the sale was already off-track.”
He nodded slowly.
“Instinct is valuable,” I said. “But without curiosity, it becomes guesswork. Leadership—real leadership—requires the humility to slow down and listen first.”
Two Months Later
During our promotion cycle, Spiky’s name rose to the top.
His team cited that day. That farmer. That tank they didn’t need to sell.
They said they’d started asking better questions. Listening more. Recommending less—until they truly understood.
Spiky became a Zone Manager soon after, leading eight townships across Magway.
What I Learned That Day
The field reveals what no report ever can.
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Sales instinct is powerful—but it must be rooted in curiosity.
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Leadership isn’t about having the right answers—it’s about asking better questions.
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And sometimes, a farmer chopping bamboo is giving you all the signals you need—if you’re willing to listen.
Final Thoughts
In social enterprise, especially in last-mile work, transformation doesn’t begin in boardrooms or dashboards. It begins in dusty fields, on motorbikes, under mango trees. It begins when we stop assuming, and start listening.
Spiky’s journey reminded me—and his team—that real leadership isn’t louder. It’s deeper.
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