Hmmmm....what's in the pot?

His shy question makes me chuckle. It feels more like a simple greeting to open a conversation, which I am happy to participate. “S'benarnya, saya budak Cina,” I answer.

He tends the tables at the nasi kandar store over at SS2 where I often have my meals. He is Indonesian, he tells me, his manner replete with sopan Nusantara. “Dari Java Tengah.”

“Wah,” I gush. “Saya memang niat nak gi lawat situ. Dekat dengan Solo ke?”

“Yogya, ‘bang. Dekat Borobudur.” And he goes on in gentle tones to describe his kampung, the plateaus, the economic hardships which forced him to seek his fortunes in Malaysia. He speaks in Bahasa Melayu not Bahasa Indonesia probably knowing I’ll be nonplussed within five seconds if he used the latter. “Kalo ‘bang lawat nanti, kontek la saya,” he invites.

We chat for a good 5-10 minutes before he excuses himself to clear some wares off the table. I do not know his name. Not yet anyway. Over another meal at another time, our paths will cross again and I will know more.

I’m always happy to come upon ‘foreign’ labour in this country. I see them as brethren, brudder, kaki. My job exposes me to a spread of common folk from across our region. They come to lay bricks, saw wood, bend steel bars, set tiles and plaster walls and to them I am grateful. In the kopitiams and mamak stores, these are the folks who bring that bottle of Chang beer to your table, prepare the prawn mee, and scoop wads of kuah onto your nasi briyani. In many homes, a bevy of domestic helpers mop the floors, iron your clothes, and fix your meal.

They come from the salt-tainted shores of Bangladesh, the over-crowded kotas of Indonesia, the tropical villages of Vietnam and the Junta-beaten squatters of Myanmar. They are farmers who know the cangkul well but have never held a hand trowel before, factory workers who’ve mixed special blends of arabica coffee but the standard 1:3:3 concrete mix draws a blank. They make me pull my hair in frustration and they make me feel I belong.

More for better than for worse, I think, Malaysia without realizing it has become an accidental melting pot of Asian people and culture. How fortuitous, I feel. So what if among this group it’s the poor who come? I’m tired of fat, rich people anyhow. So what if it’s not exactly meeting our glorious Brain-Gain agenda? I don’t buy into the politicized elitist-exclusive bullshit. Each of these persons has a story or two to share, a skill – perhaps even a craft – we may yet learn from, and fresh eyes to see if we care enough. If we care enough lah.

They operate largely unnoticed by the masses and media who are oftentimes more taken in by those with disposable income. For many, they are digits to ease our inconveniences. Hello, like the Chinese and Negro digits back when America was building its railroads? Like the Caribbean digits who perished in the Panama Canal? You’ve looked in their eyes? Some shine brighter than yours or mine.

Many a time, in between mouthfuls of kari laksa, I’d lose myself in wonder. What dreams does that skinny chakueyteow helper carry inside her? In her chirpiness and bounce, does she long for an LV bag, a huge brick house? That Myanmese boy who brings my soya-bean ais, does he pray for a freer nation back home, or really just a warmer blanket during the wet monsoon nights?

Wan comes from a village outside of Medan. He was helping out late on a delayed project. I gave him a lift home. We shared stories in that 40-minute drive from Dang Wangi to Sg Buloh. We laughed, talked about the beauty of our respective lands, and grumbled about politics and how wonderful it would be if people just reached at commonalities rather than differences. “Bisa senang, datanglah Medan,” he thanks me just before he walks towards his quarters.

Lek was a little boy when America extricated itself from Vietnam. He doesn’t remember much except for the wup-wup-wup drone of Bell-Huey choppers and fire, lots of fire. He remembers his Dad didn’t come home one day. And not long after, two of his elder brothers were also killed. “Mother cry a lot,” he said while wiping off excess cement from his steel trowel. Mother took care of the family – he has three living siblings. Lek is the eldest now. “Now my turn take care of family,” he says spiritedly. Lek has a little boy under the care of his wife back home in Saigon.

Siti is the indefatigable domestic helper with one of my clients. She’s from Bali and her family works the rice terraces at the foothills of Ubud. She has two toddlers and she wonders if they’ll remember her when she goes home. “I write to them at night,” she speaks in English. Cheerful most times, her eyes well up a little when she thinks about home. “Malaysia good to me. But Bali… my family is there now.”

In the 18 months she’s been with my client’s family, Siti can now whip a mean lasagna in the kitchen, a dish among many others she has learned. That’s a continent better than what I can do with flour. Lek, who was a certified plasterer and brick-layer back home, has picked up plumbing and electrical skills, and knows that a proper paintjob includes at least one base coat and two final coats. Wan, a farm-hand back home, is today adept with aluminium window and showcase installations. He is also comfortable with those massive power tools used in cabinet factories.

In due time, they will go home. They will carry with them this new knowledge and experience and hopefully put them to further use. If enough of them set their newfound skills collectively, we may get to see a newer, fresher Southeast Asia. I would like that a lot. I see it as an ironic twist to our K-economy, a kind of learn-as-you-earn scheme. In not so far terms, a more enlightened Southeast Asia will make for a better Malaysia – errr, that’s if we have the right stewards steering this country of course.

As for me, I have emerged richer in every exchange with these folks. They help me see and teach me to walk. I am fuller with their stories and imaginings. Who knows, perhaps some time, when the pot is fuller with vignettes and anecdotes, and when the scent of the stew is about right, I might just embark on a story. A simple story that revolves around the lives of these people, the WD-40 to our daily grind.