The write to move...

Malaysia is like the fruit that thrive there: the blossoming fuchsia dragon fruit revealing an albino kiwi-like flesh; the unwieldy hairy rambutan hiding a sweet, refreshing lychee-cousin; the leathery plum epidermis of the mangosteen dying skin and clothes a streaky scarlet before yielding its mild white fruit. Peel away the impressive, distinct outer layer to reveal the truth beneath -- complicated, nuanced, sometimes as odious as the slimy-creamy durian. On the surface, Malaysia seemed as rich and harmonious as the sweltering, painstakingly-spiced homemade mutton stew our flatmate sweat over. Besides its three primary groups -- Malays, Chinese and Indian -- Malaysia has also absorbed the flavors of relative newcomers: Thai, Cambodian, Singaporean, Chinese mainlanders, Middle Easterners from Syria, Iran, Iraq and Saudi Arabia. I wanted to taste them all, greedily devouring Penang-style mamak stall soup noodles, tongue-numbing pineapple fried rice, banana leaf-wrapped coal-barbecued stingray, piping hot naan bread baked in domed ovens, aromatic rice slathered in thick curry, street vendor beef skewers with spicy-sweet peanut sauce. But Malaysian food is much like its culture; the unique spices and flavors often mingle together yet never quite coalesce, accentuating the differences rather than melding together as one -- delicious and disorienting. Food, it seems, has just as much power to divide and segregate as it does to bring people together. Ethnic Malays, by law Muslim, are barred from pork or anything non-kosher. Hindu Indians consider cows sacred. And Chinese, as I was told, “eat everything with four legs except for the table.” Consequently, these groups rarely socialize or intermingle. And tensions over ethnicity, education, politics, religion, economics and social status simmer under the surface, like a mug of teh tarik (pulled tea), the scalding liquid resting subtly under a deceivingly innocuous layer of foam. If I wasn’t careful, I might get burned.