Greek Salad in the New Malaysia

Catching the Sec. photo brought up on the screen by the lad at Imigrasi gave a shock. Getting a fright looking in the mirror, as the former beauty Bab used to remark in latter years. Ghastly. Must have been the fluro.
         Smiling young chap was doing much better than average with the routine employment. It was not always the case even among the Malays. Bright humanity retained in that uniform confronted by the passing parade.
         This lad smiled at the mention of Malaysia Baru—the New Malaysia.
         Hearing the further expression of pleasure that the foreigner had gotten from the circumstance prompted the chap to ask somewhat quizzically, — What, you too?...
         A white foreigner taking such an interest in the welfare of another country?...
         But then maybe the young chap knew of the role played by the Sarawak Report lady, the Swiss and American investigators.
         Behind the desk at Meldrum Hotel a short walk away the old uncle was willing to meet you half-way, nodding and smiling.
         —….But then, you know. Many Malays still voted for him.
         At seventy-eight the Chinaman had seen enough to remain cautious, especially through the honeymoon period.
         One really did need to hand it to the Man of Steal too, the Bugis warrior, MO1: firmest bare-faced denial and first rate poor-pitiful-me-set-upon-like-this-when-I-am-trying-to-pay-my-daughter’s-medical-expenses.... Even with a night spent in the lock-up good confidence he could escape scot free. A RM2.4 mil. prize-fighter lawyer might have something to do with it.
         Some little unfinished business from the last visit here needed attention....
         Could the Warna altar trader in Jalan Trus really and truly be a Muslim? An Indian Muslim openly trading devotional paraphernalia to the kaffirs who worshipped the cow and dabbed their foreheads with dung?... Yick’s Sec. Guard had said as much on the last visit, hadn’t he?
         In fact, no. That would have been something extraordinary. Man was a Catholic. “Ceylonese,” said the Yick when he was found out front of the store. Father had been a well-known pastor. (A Catholic lay preacher perhaps in the Tropics, back in the day.)

         All that elaborate, extended ritual opening up shop every morning—the candles, incense, bell up and down the length and breadth—was purely in order to keep faith with the customers?... There was a factory a few kilometres out of town and another back in “Ceylon,” according to the Yick man.

         Garlic nan the second night had to be Medina opposite the hotel for the superior fare, a thinner, crustier article served with diced raw onion and a tomato-chilli sambal. The last couple of years at least that had been the offering when the Lahorean had manned the oven at Medina. Even once that man had left, his replacement, the younger Marathi, had kept the faith for a time. Something had gotten into the lad since. Now there was hardly anything to separate the Reaz and Medina serving.
         For some reason it had taken over six and one half years in these parts to place an order for a simple favourite treat. Eating by and large—almost exclusively in fact—at the Muslim road-side eateries had perhaps curbed the impulse. Even at the Chinese or Indian eatery of this type any special order was difficult to voice. Everything was chop-chop; items on the placard, See there. Nobody could give a toss for some odd ball order. If you wanted Euro exotica, well, maybe try Clarke Quay or Katong.
         In truth, the venture had never been trialed previously.
         This was a right fine lad the Marathi. A warm handshake had been made on the re-acquaintance the day before. The impulse had bitten. That nan serving was going to be thin again tonight. Give it a go then, Joe.
         — Tomato, have?
         What, juice?... (Commonly. At Medina only a minor surprise. Possibly squeezed on the spot.)
         — No. No. Fresh. A fist shown. Diced. Chop-chop shown.
         Seemed not a trouble.
         And bawang. Diced too. Onion.
         That was a cinch.
         Here it was coming before even one quarter of the roti had been consumed. Good show. With a little chilli added off the lad’s own bat.
         On a coffee saucer was the only thing. It had not been a large tommie; and a shallot rather than the other.
         Was there some shadowed disappointment despite best effort?
         — Lemon? the chap offered cordially as he turned to go.
         That was a good idea. A wild guess from this man.
         As always happened and one always forgot, lime was the tropical lemon. Size of a marble that we boys rolled at school, top sliced for convenience.
         Before the hospitality was given up, — Salt? perchance.
         Chap had watched some of the recent TV shows from abroad.
         The day before a remark had been passed on his thinness. Had he dropped 2 - 3 kgs?
         No. No. He was fine just like that, all as usual.
         Perfectly true too.