an invitation that cannot be refused

There are two trails that allow you to do a sort of loop around the island where I am. The distances are short, thankfully, because this circuit proved to be exhausting. The heat and humidity (humidity factor 35°C) add to the already challenging terrain. The trail is rudimentary but stands out well from the lush jungle once you find the access point. Luckily, AllTrails exists because signage isn't Malaysians' strong suit; you can even get lost in airports.

I ventured out alone, without a phone signal, a bit reckless I admit. I met one person in the first section, no one in the second. Between the two, a parade of beaches, accommodations, snack bars and especially diving and freediving agencies, the local thing.

Exhausted, thirsty and hungry, I found the holy grail there: a cafe offering the plate of fruit I had been dreaming of and a television broadcasting the Morocco-Netherlands match, Canada's next opponent in this World Cup.

Well satiated and rested, I walk along the rest of the beaches to settle down and swim in the last one where a group of local young people are learning to freedive, I would say rather floating with goggles.

Then I set off again. The path isn't easy to find. I ask an old woman for directions, and she signals that I should go under the fence bordering the beach. There's a spot there that isn't too low; I take it and find the path, unmarked and clearly not very busy. It's quite a climb, and I hesitate for a moment before continuing, being alone, but I proceed very cautiously. It's steeper than the first one. It climbs and climbs, but the descent comes quite quickly and turns out to be even steeper.

Relieved and a little exhausted, I finally reached the beach. A small, unassuming place served as a dive center, and five employees were tucking into their meager meal: rice, fish, and an omelet. They invited me to join them. I hesitated a bit, but it was hard to refuse. One of them brought me a plate, and I asked for a utensil; they were all eating with their hands. I was offered a Coke, but I declined, preferring water. They drank a sweet, greenish liquid, which I didn't dare try, using diabetes as an excuse. Only one, originally from Bengal, spoke English; the other four were Malaysian. They came from all over to work here, and according to them, it was a good place to be.

After eating, they headed towards the sink, often found in dining rooms—I wondered why—to wash their hands, which they would then use to smoke their cigarettes, each offering me one, which I declined. As they were leaving, I took out a bill, which was refused. I insisted on paying for the water and cigarettes, I said. Finally, it was accepted.

It seems that in our world, the poorer you are, the more you share…