The Jembatan Merah bridge is the connection between what used to be the Dutch part of town and the Arab/Chinese quarters. I cross it.
On the other side, I find a labyrinth of narrow business streets and quiet resindential alleys. I meander through, looking, smelling, listening.
At the market, a man offers me to taste something that could be either pressed dates or it could be chrushed beetles. Or anything in between. He repeatedly tells me it’s good, and motions for me to put some in my mouth, by bringing a piece to his lips without letting it touch them. The other people in the stall giggle.
Eventually he puts a small piece in his mouth, but keeps it on the tip of his tongue – again telling me it’s soooo good.
I tell him that I’m not gonna taste some shit that I don’t know what it is, and that he himself obviously won’t eat. Also that I am not an idiot. And I smile. He doesn’t know English anyway.
The temperature is in the mid eighties, and I can finally go for a proper walk without dying. The locals, though, are now wearing hooded sweatshirts or light jackets that are zipped up all the way to the chin. I truly don’t get it.
A coffee shop is found, but I give up on writing as there are a bunch of kids running around screaming, playing hide and seek. I decide to blame “free parenting” for my writing career going nowhere.
