Melaka

My stay in my motherland for the past three days has been one filled with literal tears of joy, reconciliation and reflection. Melaka is where my forefathers originate; where they were born, raised, put to work, encountered rattan-enabled strokes and nurtured to break to productively break their backs.

Home Kampong
What I witnessed I the village was still nothing like how it used to be, albeit not as modern as Singapore. Still the nostalgia of the setting has not failed to send chills down my dad's and uncle's spines thus catalysing the tear-making process. The desired by-product was only to be triggered by a 40 year-overdue aunt-nephew embrace. The reversal of such deep reactions proved to be highly endothermic given that the elder has superb memory. Even spectator particles like me can't be spared from  these cheek-wetting moments.

Makan
I thought my tongue was malay enough until I sat cross-legged in a kampong house, harrassed by flies on a straw mat. I ate what looked like vegetables simmered in a gravy of vomit. But praises to god, its taste is most interesting and nothing like I've ever seen; the most creative way of utilising durian. Not forgetting the asam pedas which tasted just like my late grandma's cooking (says my dad). And I won't be stepping on the weighing scale for some time to come.