Foo Dogs

by Deyan Lo (Singapore)

Making a local connection Malaysia

"We're lucky." My mom said as we passed the customs and drove onto the unfamiliar causeway ahead. I say it was unfamiliar but we've crossed the same bridge dozens of times before. It was only because it was unsettlingly empty which made it feel foreign. But this place had good food, cheap prices and cheaper petrol, what more of a reason do you need to come here? It once took us nine hours to get through the customs on Good Friday. This time, it took less than half an hour, even with the temperature screenings. We were lucky indeed. My mom dropped me off next to a money exchanger money as she slotted herself into a car washing lot. It was easy to distinguish local and foreign cars here, simply from their license plate, but you didn't need to know that we had a sleeker, thinner font to tell us apart. An elderly Malay woman wearing a dark purple baju kurung and frayed hijab was sitting down on a mat, cross-legged with a floral decorated ceramic bowl in front of her. Inside it were coins and a couple of notes. She idled by next to the counter of the money exchanger. Her face was strained with cracked skin and one of her eyes was pale white. She meandered about, but she never looked directly at people passing by. On the opposite side of the counter was a Malay man, probably only slightly younger than the woman, also sitting down. He wore a dirty white singlet with a sarung around his waist. He was sitting down with one of his legs propped up that revealed a bandage wrapped around where the rest of his leg was supposed to be. He had a large stack of tissue packets next to him with a plastic container in front of him with varying amounts of coins and one ringgit notes. They reminded me of the shishi you'd see guarding both sides of the entrance to a Buddhist temple, it was as if they were more protecting something sacred inside rather an ornament of sorts. Two men were standing at the counter of the exchange, they conversed in Malay as they started to walk, one of them turned and placed a note in the elderly woman's bowl who bowed her head down. They turned around and did the same to the one-legged man. One of them picked up a tissue packet they walked off. He remained stiff and continued to stare unflinchingly into space. I changed my dollars into ringgits and did the same. As I walked off, a hoarse voice called out. I turned around to see the one-legged man stretching his hand out with a tissue packet in his hand that I chose not to take one. He spoke to me in Malay as I was staggering back, awkwardly explaining that I didn't need it in English. I expected him to quiet down but he was relentless, almost spiteful in the way spoke, he shuffled about like he was about to get up, perhaps he would have chased after me if he could. I turned around with an embarrassing wave and got into my mom's car that was now parked next to the store after being washed. His eyes trailed us vehemently, unblinking as we drove off. "How was the exchange rate?" My mom asked in Cantonese. "I got back 2,900 ringgits," I lied. "That's a lot less than I expected." She replied. "Yeah, me too." And we were off to do what we needed to do. Refuel, buy medicine for my grandfather, eat, watch a movie and a massage. It was pouring by the time we were done and some parts of the road were lightly flooded. We passed by the money changer on the way back and I remembered the two guardians of the money exchanger. I thought about why the man would've been angry and it dawned on me that I should have just taken the tissue packet. It was not about whether I needed it or not, it was about respect, not pity. After all, we were just neighbours overstaying our multiple welcomes.