Douche

Not bad so far as these things go. If you wanna choose a list of confreres for sharing a Contributors Page you'd go for royalty first of all. Andy Motion fair company. Andy just got back from the Royal Box at Wimbledon; couldn't make Lords for the cricket as the man was burning the midnight oil like the rest of us revising and polishing lines in order to ensure he made the cut at Ambit Magazine. Soho launch day before spitting distance from the British Museum, Carnaby Street &etc. And has taken tea at Windsor, stray Corgi crotch hair difficult to launder. Beaut show. His successor as the Laureate turns out a Scot gay gal, doubling as the poetry editor at—you guessed it—Ambit Magazine. (No accusation of nepotism insinuated.) Good going; one always wonders what kind of company one is entering with these ventures. Reassuring.
         Congratulations to the thin, tired waiter here tonight at Tasvee. The Indian-Malays like himself, the old Chins in the quarter, all the other ragtag ratbags have provided much inspiration to this scribe here before you. Party in London last night (Soho would have gone over his head); Californian publication upcoming at the end of the month. Couldn't have done it without you people. Really.
         Blinking. Knotting that fine smooth brow some. Might have got the essence the man, little kernel. Chap well knows as they all do how they are appreciated, not hard to tell. Never less than a double nandri, terima kasih, thank you at every serving comes naturally, welling up. Almost tears at the undeserved lordly attendance.
         The earlier episode at the Malay provisions store at the base of J. C. Complex was going to be let pass. Nagged away, nag, nag, couldn't be left aside. A little wry fun rising up of itself.  You had to laugh at your predicament, yours and that of the others. A hoot.
         Toiletries, beauty products, soaps, natural remedies. Place was worth a peek every couple of months. Lazy evening cruising with Andy in the pocket, nothing pressing, have a little look-see. From the doorway there was nothing visible, but you never can tell, an Arabian princess, footloose dowager of some kind behind a curtain perchance might be receptive to the suggestion of ginger tea somewhere beneath the rain trees. Short survey.
         Start in the usual corner and working thoroughly through. These native places were always interesting; nothing like the supermarkets. You could not find five percent of this product on the NTUC or Fairprice shelves. As we shall presently see.
         Some of the goods were familiar from down in Jogja, items from Indonesia and the Peninsular. Magnifying glass in the front pocket of the bag for small print. Some of the bahasa was not beyond this now seasoned traveler, Malay specialist/interpreter of Tropical Islam to the wider world.
         Little worth remarking for the most part. Weighting toward the Arabic-Islamic sphere: olive oil soaps, shampoos, dates, skin-care products. Arabian perfumes and whitening creams that might have been popular in the Prophet's day—metres of shelf space. Unguents. The Zam-zam water from the spring in the Holy Land where Abraham's wife.... what was it again?... Seemed to be out. There was fakery on the market to be sure. Various elixirs, pills and potions. Little of interest, little worth remarking, until at the end the opposite corner at the back was reached. It had taken twenty minutes of slow, steady and unhurried looking. 
         Long white paper box tooth-paste sized, pictureless branding.
         MADURA ASLI
         Oh yeah. Madura. Madura Island; the people thereof, here in a little long pack for you to take home. For sale.
         One did not need to google. Madura asli. Twenty white boxes stacked, blue upper case lettering.  Memories of impatiently opening the Kellogg’s pack for the toy within the cardboard. Half a dozen plastic Madura natives in traditional dress for child's play unlikely here.
         Inside it was not toothpaste either, but not far off. A long, irregular and bulbous cylinder sheathed in clear plastic. A blank kind of article, something of the look of a pre-consumerist product. In the Eastern Bloc even in the 80’s there was this kind of simple, utilitarian packaging. Natural colour it seemed; natural form perhaps. Well, almost. Perhaps the shape was smoothed by hand beneath atap-roofed cottages.
         Edible? Soft tube?... No, it only looked soft. If there was a screw or other kind of top it was not apparent. 
         One of the sales staff in the black/green corporate polo was sitting behind a shelf having his dinner. Styrofoam take-out and plastic glove for shoveling produced a momentary wince. Maybe he'd been handling something, the cosmetics and detergents. Not in any case for disturbing.
         Side-kick around a bit under a scarf an older woman, a disappointing face to show the world not to do with ugliness.
         Innocent question, lady could see that readily enough. Briefest blanching.
        — For ladies. Ask the uncle, the most she could answer.
         At first the thought her English was inadequate. Usual chap at the counter was smooth, took his teh under the verandah at Mr. T. T. before his shifts. 
         The regular chap was not in however, still away after the Hari Raya break. Old uncle the replacement couldn't say Aah, as the Montenegrins put it.
         Oh well. It was only a half-hearted enquiry.
         There was a little commotion outdoors, firemen in their kit running along the path. Coming up earlier a couple of Indian chaps had been training a garden hose up at the first storey of the corner shop-house where a crowd of onlookers had gathered. Nothing. A toaster caught fire perhaps, or fan. Now the brigade was looking lively, dozen young lads in nice bright red unused uniforms and boots. Action stations. The crowd had doubled, flashing lights brightening the dark corner. 
         One had gone out for a peek absentmindedly with the non-alcoholic mouthwash and the mystery package in hand. A quick look, see who had gathered.
         After five months in Jogja over three trips a good number of Madurese had been encountered come across from their little isle up above Bali. There were a good number of becak drivers from there, some of the traders; shops along the rail-line carried their specialties, foods and the like that was advertised on the windows. Mahshushah the guide and interpreter had been born on the island of cow racing and some particular kind of weaving or dyeing. Madura was a harsh, tough place, a kind of local Wild West. There were still many in Indonesia. Madura had begun to attract some tourist interest; a visit had been intended for some time now. There would be few backpackers on Madura; to date it was only internal tourism and only beginning. A couple of impressive orang here in Geylang Serai hailed from Madura; one knew the asli of Madura more than a little.
         The diner had finished his meal. Old auntie had told him her difficulty with the foreign customer. Over he strode now to rescue the situation.
         A wood was it the lad said of some kind native to Madura? Or was it crystal, calcified rock? 
         The thought of a dildo had arisen between times. It was unlikely of course, but there were a range of condoms on open display on a couple of shelves in colourful boxes, ribbed and flavoured it might have been. 
         Chap was matter-of-fact and humourless, still wearing his plastic mitt. Late evening after a long shift.
         A natural cleanser, he delivered in best doctor-at-bedside manner. For women below, the hand gestured. Eliminated smells and whatnot.
         Fellow spoke authoritatively, as if he knew precisely what he was talking about. (Helped out his wife with the operation when she had a crick in the neck?)
         There was nothing more to say. This was not a shopping expedition for one's own wife, no need explain. 
         OK. Gotcha then Bud, rightOh. Not to worry.
         It would not have made much of a dildo, even loosely improvised. Hard in an unappealing way, yet light too without body. This was calcification of some kind, early stage transformation of wood to rock? Geologists would have a name for it. Evidently selling.