These are the long, hot, dry days of fasting in the kampung, when birds seem to sing with croaky voices, cats are sullen, quiet, and even the monitor lizards seem more sluggish.
These are the days of Ramadan, when activities in the kampung are reverse geared, with day becoming night and night, surprising enough, becoming day.
Languid thirsty days followed by frenetic thirst quenching nights sees fasting end and the feasting begin in earnest, and oh what delicious drool inducing, delectable feasting it is.
Down by the new kampung hall, opposite our bungalow rear, where Kopi our scruffy cat delights in roaming and spraying his unique brand of Yves St. Laurent, every evening is the Ramadan pasar.
Standing outside my kitchen, I look longingly towards the pasar and can smell the delicate aromas of the infamous Ayam Percik, sticks of succulent satay, huge woks of nasi and mee goring, lovingly ladled into boxes of square, white polystyrene - for customers to consume with relish at the berbuka puasa (break of fast).
As lovely as the savoury dishes are, and they are lovely, oh so lovely; it is the kueh, the sweets, the fabulously well crafted and mouth wateringly delicious Malay deserts which are my inevitable downfall, and no doubt, more than any wine, women or whisky will be my ultimate ruination.
I am addicted to kueh.
At other times of the year I barely get by, but at Ramadan, when the market is just laden with all kinds of food, my pseudo stoic determination crumbles into dust, and I recall my lust and longing for the tongue teasing kueh.
I just adore kueh of all shapes and sizes, and though kueh takes little out of your pocket, it will inevitably pile on kilos around your waist. Even the names of the kueh, wrapped in mystery, and frequently banana leaf too, get my oral juices flowing at the mere mention of their names.
From the ubiquitous badak berendam (hippos dipping in the river), to anak dera baju koyak (maiden with a torn dress) and anak dara dua sebelik (two maidens in the same room) the names are enough to send you into raptures of both laughter and wanton desire for these heaven sent parcels of sheer joy.
The Ramadan pasar opposite has tables practically groaning under the weight of see-through plastic containers of lompat tikam (jump and stab), where gula Melaka forms a flavoursome layer between the sweet velvet santan and the soft, green, gelatinous pandan custard.
Tables bow under the load of tahi itek (duck droppings) deliciously made from eggs and sugar, but the most glorious of kueh is the most simple, and shelters under the most mundane of names.
Pineapple rolls are exactly what they say they are – rolls of pineapple.
But what rolls of pineapple. The pineapple in question is homemade pineapple jam, lovingly prepared with fresh pineapple and sugar, stewed and reduced to make the preserve, then wrapped in the softest most melt in your mouth pastry that you will ever have tasted, brushed with egg and baked.
The result is pure heaven in a mouthful, and, luckily, the pineapple rolls come sized to fit nicely into your mouth without, undue indelicacy.
That I have a weight problem goes without saying. Staying in Malaysia has only increased my girth, but it is the combination of having a sweet tooth, low resistance to temptation, and the long fasting days, which egg me on to devour copious amounts of Malay kueh during the feasting nights of Ramadan.
The fact that I am married to simply one of the best traditional Malay cooks also does not help my weight. A hard taskmaster – her mother, taught my wife.
Both of my wife’s parents are particular about how their food should taste, and my wife was tutored accordingly, encouraged to learn all the traditional ways of Malay kampung cooking.
It is both a joy and a curse. A sheer joy because of the wondrous meals my wife is able to prepare, but a curse to my waistline.
So as the evening azan calls for the day’s fast to finish, after quenching my thirst with watermelon juice, my eyes scan the table for the kueh.
I need to be confident that the kueh is sitting there, waiting for me and my appetite, as soon as I have enjoyed the savouries.
Once the kueh is spied, I can relax and enjoy the meal lovingly prepared by my wife, eat, drink and be merry for the kueh is waiting.
Malaysia and kueh are my downfall, my wife’s cooking more so.
I salivate as I write, waiting for break of fast and the beginning of feast, knowing that I may do it all over again tomorrow - a brand new day with a brand new kueh.
