May 13, 2011

My dearest,

The road is long. We drive for miles, taking turns. I will take the first shift, taking us away from the centre of the capital, away from the twin towers and constructions of concrete and of steel, all the dust that gathers. We leave at the stroke of six in the evening, always on a Friday, when there are thousands of others joining us on our escape from the city. Soon the skyscrapers give way to a more industrial scenery, then the suburbs, then we are on the highway heading south.

Some weekends we will visit our friends in Singapore, usually meeting them at one of the innumerable shopping malls along Orchard Road. We will have dinner at one of the restaurants, usually one of many in a well-oiled chain, then drop by the Coffee Club at Ngee Ann City or Paragon for a cup of your favourite Aged Sumatra while I wait for us to finish our drinks and for the messy-looking and happily sinful Muddy Mud Pie to arrive. The Lion City will always be a quick getaway without the usual distractions of centuries-old architecture or strange local delicacies – just really good conversation and great company, the way it’s meant to be.

More often than not though, we will end our journey at Johor Bahru, the last stop before one crosses the Causeway to Singapore. Your hometown. Nothing much to interest me, you tell me a million times over, no tourist attractions, no buildings of significant historical value, no fabulous natural scenery of mention – no, nothing much, really.

Except this used to be home for you, and that means something to me. Your best friends were born here too, as you were; you met them in primary school, in high school, made bonds that last decades, till today and for the years to come. I envy you this; I lose touch with those I have known from my childhood, and honestly, I don’t bother to keep in touch. I envy you your brethren and the camaraderie you enjoy with such ease.

You offer me your past and your present. Even in its advance stage of mournful progress and semi-halted dereliction, your hometown has its charms. The best wat tan hor (滑旦河; flat rice noodles in a thick egg gravy) in the Peninsula, a well-kept secret. The auntie who makes the thinnest and silkiest chee cheong fun with shrimp-and-pork filling at the morning market in your neighbourhood taman. (The secret is in her spicy-sweet sauce – ask for more, you remind me.)

I don’t have any of this to share with you for my hometown is besieged by a tyranny of tourists from all over the world. No one even dreams of visiting our good country without visiting Malacca, it seems. What can I do? Surely it’s not my fault when my birthplace is a UNESCO World Heritage Site while yours is a place frugal and frisky Singaporeans rush to during weekends for cheaper, bulk grocery shopping and for extra-marital visitations?

It’s not a fair fight, I know.

So we do not stop by my hometown. Far too many people; the crowds can be stiffling, especially in this maddening heat. We skip it.

Almost.

We do have our tradition. We do have to change positions; you have to take over the wheel eventually while I sink happily into the passenger seat. The switch happens at a rest stop after Ayer Keroh, after we have left my town in our dust. And we always do the same thing, without fail. We abandon our car and we enter the blissful coolness of the Baskin Robbins outlet here. We want our ice-cream.

Thirty-one flavours yet we get the same two every time. Peanut butter chocolate. Jamoca almond fudge. You are nuts about your nuts, and I do love my chocolate. It’s a perfect pairing.

Outside, it’s hot and unbearable. Outside, there are our very different hometowns and our pasts and all our differences, circling each other like a tiger and its trainer in a circus ring. Inside, we dip our spoons together, savouring the taste of ice-cream and our common dreams, mingling like something that could last a lot longer than thirty-one flavours.

Yours, ever and always.