Di mana tempat mentari jatuh? 
Di balik Penyengat, di hujung laut,
Di mana tempat bahasa tumbuh?
Di hujung kalam, di tubir mulut.
Where do the rays of the sun perish?
Behind Penyengat, in the seas westward,
Where would our tongue fruitfully flourish?
At the tip of the pen; in the spoken word.
The man was persistent. I tried to fend him off by trying to seem like I knew my way around and that I had done this a thousand times before. Inwardly, I cursed myself for not sticking to my usual practice of trying to blend in with the locals. Wearing a tight T-shirt, a pair of calf-length denim shorts together with leather-looking sandals and wielding a shiny digital camera, I stood out like a sore thumb in a crowd of school children, fishermen and village housewives coming back from their weekly grocery shopping. I might as well have carried a gigantic placard saying “I am a tourist. Please come and rip me off.”