It’s a well-entrenched tradition now.  There’s a small bottle of whiskey, a handshake, enquiries about one another’s family, and an agreement to share dinner together that night.  He’s Pak Rozali, Director of TLM, the micro-finance organisation I work with in Kupang, West Timor. 30,000 clients, 300 staff across five islands, a few adopted kids, known to take stragglers and strugglers under his wing, he wears thick-rimmed glasses, loves badminton and a good belly laugh.

He says he’ll pick me up at 6pm, jam karet, rubber time; we don’t take clocks too seriously here.  Pak asks what I’d like for dinner; where to go.  We both know the answer, but it’s a pleasantry we enjoy.  It’s always pasar malam; the night markets.  We start beer negotiations through the driver; Pak Rozali tells him to stop and grab four large Bintangs; I say I’m not up for beer tonight; he reduces the order to two; I offer one small can; Om Jano (‘Ya-no’) returns with four cans; two each.  Iya, saya bisa.  That I can do.

We drive past the bemo corner where the brightly coloured public transport vans are parked, music blaring, all mohawks, tattoos and cigarettes; these boys are a sub-culture in Kupang, have their own language, stuff like that.  We pass ‘lover’s corner’, where young couples purchase barbequed corn and say sweet things over the sound of waves lapping the shore.  The pasar malam is down a side road from here; we park and weave our way towards the lights, the smoke, the smells.  I’m smiling already.

The stall holders wheel their brightly coloured carts to this side road every evening, set up camp, and put their delicious wares on display.  Fluorescent lights are strung up, they dance and dip whenever their patron – the generator – coughs or decides to take a break.  There’s everything here: classic dishes – nasi goreng, mei goreng, gado-gado and some others that have taken my fancy: ikan bakar, udang asam, martabak – barbequed fish, sour prawns, and an omelette-pastry piece of mastery.  We wander up the hill, settle on ikan bakar.  There’s some discussion of price as we choose our fish from the numerous on display.  Agreement, a discreet nod of sorts, and we sit on chairs that complain about the weight of the bule, threaten to faint.

We chat for a while in the semi-darkness, maybe sip a freshly squeezed juice, while we wait for our street chef to work her genius.  Bowls of steaming rice, a small dish of water, a plate with a few vegies and some sambal. Cutlery banned, we dig in.  We’re halfway through the udang asam when a guy selling pirated cds puts his marketing foot forward and cranks a few tunes.  Perhaps sales have been down this month.  His competition over the way follows suit, so we laugh, sit in the cacophony and flick between ikan, udang and beer.  Just delicious.  Stunning.  I adjust my chair – he’s feigning illness in one leg – and reach for more ikan.

The generator splutters, our musical salesman’s show shuts down, and he gives it a rest for a while.  Bellies full, we push our plates away and chew toothpicks.  We chat, Bahasa, English.  We sit in silence.  It doesn’t matter.  It’s enak, delicious either way.  No need for dessert.  We soak it up; time kind of fades til my chair collapses (on cue, all part of the routine), and I’m brought back to reality.  We nod at each other, haggle over who’ll pay the bill, and wander back into the darkness home.

Standard fare in Kupang perhaps, the old pasar malam.  Maybe it’s the ordinariness that makes it so inviting.  I can’t put my finger on its secret ingredient.

I hope I never do.