On a recent visit to my hometown Kuching City, I chose to stay at the Holiday Inn overlooking the limpid water of the lazy Sarawak River.

I sauntered over to a small shop selling books, magazines, and cigarettes. Paying for my purchase, I struck up a conversation with the petite young lady in tudung, something that I did rarely in KL.

After a brief chat on the weather and the high price of the Star in Kuching, I told her how much I loved Sarawak because of her friendly people. Thinking that I was a Chinese from West Malaysia, she smiled proudly and said, "Yes, we are friendly in Sarawak. I can even eat with you at the same table."

Our national grand narrative on national unity and racial harmony are couched in sweeping abstract slogans like 1Malaysia. The real racial harmony is actually to be found in the little narratives of daily life in Sarawak and Sabah.

"I can eat with you at the same table." That about says it all. From time immemorial, sharing a meal has always been a celebration of common congeniality along friends. It is the ultimate token of hospitality and mutual good will.

People who can share a meal together will very seldom end up as enemies. When the head of state visit another country, he is invited to attend a grand banquet hosted by the head of that state, as a symbol of friendship between the two countries.

The number of times when I can share a meal at the same table with my Malay friends in West Malaysia can be counted on the fingers of one hand. Involuntarily, a wall descends from the heavens of West Malaysia between members of different ethnic communities.

Lunch with an old friend

While I am on the subject of sharing a meal, I was once invited by my old friend Bujang for lunch in his kampong houses in Samarahan a few hours' drive from Kuching.

Bujang lived in the constituency then represented by the Sarawak Chief Minister Taib Mahmud. It is a swampy coastal area, where most of the Malay villagers lived a traditional way of life and sought daily sustenance from fishing and farming.

When I arrived, Bujang introduced me to his father. The frail old man was over 90 years old. I offered him a cigarette, as was demanded by Sarawak etiquette, and he accepted gracefully.

Then, the early afternoon prayer started from the loud speaker from the mosque next door, and the old man leaned against the wall in silence, probably joining the prayer in his heart. I sat upright in silence too out of respect.

When the prayer ended, he started talking about his life. When he and a bunch of young relatives and friends arrived in this village, the area was a swampy forest. Sarawak was still under the rule of the white Rajah. They had to carve out a human niche for themselves, clearing the forests, and growing a variety of crops to sustain themselves. It was very hard.

Speaking in his ancient trembling voice, he recalled how their first priority was to build the mosque next door to their house. He was the chairman of the building committee. It was a monumental task because they received no help from the Brooke regime. But they had to do it, because the Mosque was the centre of their communal life, and the anchor of their daily spiritual faith. Then, they built their first school.

Then Bujang joined us to announce that lunch was served. It was prepared by his shy wife, and it was a far more tasty meal than they serve in the posh Malay restaurants in Kuching or Kuala Lumpur to-day.

Who says Malays are poor in Maths?

About twenty years ago, I started a company to sell the Rocket and other publications, about the time of the hated Operation Lalang. I advertised for an account clerk. Good account clerks were, and are still, worth their weight in gold, and very rare.

Many candidates turned up, some with their Chinese parents, who claimed to be my supporters. Finally, I decided upon hiring Norhashima, a fresh graduate from Mara with an impressive accounting diploma.

Nor turned out to be worth her weight in gold. She suffered constantly from asthma attacks, and I sometimes was alarmed to see her slumping over her desk and would give her the day off. But she was neat, meticulous, and perfect in keeping the books and balancing the accounts.

When my company closed down a few years later, I recommended Nor to my lawyer friend. She too became invaluable in the law firm. I was glad she was paid quite well, by Sarawak standard.

During the Hari Raya season, I would visit Nor at her father's house in Petra Jaya. Her father was a car salesman, and seemed to be the typical decent Malay urban businessperson. He grumbled that he has never received help from the BN government, and it was I an opposition MP who found a job for his daughter. Again, the food served to me cooked by Nor's mother was better than any I had tasted in any posh Malay restaurant.

Thenceforth, whenever I stood for election as a candidate, Nor would take leave and worked in my election office as my account chief, in charge of all money matters. At the end of the election, she would present her fabulously accurate and neat account. Who says all Malays are poor in math?

On festive occasions like Christmas and Chinese New Year, Nor would turn up at my doorsteps with a huge cake that she had baked herself. On the odd occasions that I met her, she would jump up and down in excitement like a young girl. I am happy that her health has improved a great deal.

Then, there was Tua Kampong Ahmad Sahari, the village chief of Kampong Pandan, a Malay fishing settlement near Lundu.

I first met TK Ahmad Sahari in the early 1990s, when reports came to me that logging at the famous Gunung Gading had caused havoc with the life of 18 villages around the twin peaked mountain.

I was taken to his humble Malay kampong house on stilts, right at the edge of the grand South China Sea, among the swaying coconut trees, nurtured by the warm salty wind that blew from the rolling waves. I looked up at the sky, and saw the most beautiful colours of the entire universe.

TK Ahmad Sahari turned out to be a frail old man in his 60s with his rib-cage showing. He welcomed me at the corridor, and invited me in. We sat and discussed the strategy. A few weeks later, a general meeting was held in his small sitting room by the village chiefs of all the 18 villagers, to form a task force to fight back the powerful bloggers.

Meeting another old friend

In the months and years that ensued, I was to learn another political lesson. In Sarawak, in the face of incursion of powerful politically-connected business interest into the rural domain, an opposition MP would be powerless indeed. But when people power spawned by good traditional community leadership was unleashed, even powerful companies will have to succumb to their cry for justice.

After years of constant skirmishes between the timber company and the local villagers, the logging at Gunung Gading was halted and frozen. The beautiful mountain housing the Rafflesia – the largest and the most-smelly flower in the word – has remained pristine to this day.

By that time, TK Ahmad and I had become very good friends, and I visited him regularly, sharing a coffee with him in his humble sitting room, listening to the waves lapping at the shores, in an idyllic spot that must have captured the imagination of Joseph Conrad.

Since my move to KL in 2000, I have not met TK Ahmad Sahari. News about him drifted across the sea. The last I heard was that he sent greetings to me.

I am now planning a trip back to Kuching for a family function in September. This time, I will make it a point to travel the 100km to Pandan Beach, to visit my old friend TK Ahmad Sahari. He is in his 80s now, and I am getting on in age as well. Any meeting between aged old friends could be the last, and ought to be cherished.

You see, in Sarawak, and probably in Sabah as well, the 1Malaysia concept is an empty slogan. We have lived the 1Sarawak and 1Sabah way of life for many centuries past.

SIM KWANG YANG was MP for Bandar Kuching between 1982 and 1995. He can be reached at kenyalang578@hotmail.com