Christians

“How to Read the Bible.”
         Indeed. The question has been pondered a number of times here. Even where the English was high order, how do they possibly manage? In Africa the same. But we are in Singapore.
         It will be available in some kind of Mandarin translation, but even the bright, university educated here struggle with Mandarin. Odd. Cantonese, Hokkien, other so-called dialects are more common here, certainly spoken form. The language position a highly interesting matter.
         The reader late forties/early fifties, American accented. Understandably unsettled at the enquiry. Ballpoint with notepad adjacent. A purchase it seemed, not borrowed item.
         Spacey text, thin volume, headings every page. The author a sister of the First Bishop of Singapore it might have been (who conveniently praises the book in the blurb).
         How to Read the Bible as Literature, or Poetry, one of the heads.
         Recall the teachings of the wise old elders: “Do unto others as you would have done unto yourself.” There is nothing more you need to know.
         The key message; principle outline. The down-trodden, sin, saving and eternal life. Pictures, incense, music and fellowship.
         And yet of course they feel the gap here; feel inadequate and know catch-up required.
         One can can expect a good deal of formal bible study, as well as all the private on display across the town. Figures as yet unknown.

Stamp of Class

The men are affluent. There can be little doubt. Almost certainly they do not live in the surrounding HDB's. A day or two ago the truth of the matter was brought out by the visit of one of the wives. This presence put the matter beyond doubt. With her attendance it seemed her husband too dressed up for the occasion. Previously the big dressy ring with the large jade stone had not been evident. His colourful polo too was something extra. The colours were quite outside of the range established by this men's group these weeks past now. Bright blue and red bands amongst some lesser hues, over a white base. It had been picked out for him by his wife. Every other day he had dressed like the others in the muted tones. Never before in a polo either. All the men wore the same bland shirts and trousers.
No doubt it was the wife who was responsible for the schism on that day too. Someone among the others at the far, larger table was persona non grata for some reason. Some offense had been given. Still, there was a fair group at this secondary table, and over the hour quite a few had been poached from the other. They ate more at this table. A large plastic bag sat on the middle of the table, seemingly not the shop fare either. Each man who came over was earnestly invited by the wife to take a piece of pastry. All did so.
A fine woman sat there. A reddish brown hue colored her perm, nicely held in place. The hairdresser was visited regularly. Bright pomegranate red on hands and toes. The blouse was chosen for the predominant red, a shade of crimson in this case White slacks, cream sandals. The tracery of the blouse of a kind of twig or creeper pattern was over white. Faultless. Money that might have been of a serious level. Perhaps of all the men this one might have been picked as the success story. Fine little touches. A particular kind of indulgent smile. Dentistry. The position of the arm at a slight angle resting on the table top. (Mahogany immediately suggested.) Nothing so strong as to give an instant impression, but following the entry of the wife, it fitted.
Stylish and accomplished her hostessing over the pastries. Two or three times she called on each new member as he came up to join them, pointing jerkingly at the open plastic bag each time. They had entertained constantly at home over the years. The practice was evident.
Perhaps a good number of the men were loaded in fact. Discrete money. The wives spent it. Children and in-laws with all the latest gadgets at home.
More: the chief versifier from a few days ago, the one with the poets and sages at his fingertips, separated from the main table to join the other half-way through. Nothing resembling poetry from him today. Banal kind of conversation in its place. Indeed the chap little resembled himself today in fact. Well, resemblance was clear enough; nothing could mask that moush. But, odd and troubling to report, today the top layer of this man had been given a rich, dark coating. Did he by some chance know Mrs. Such-and-such would be putting in an appearance? Was that it? The dye or rinse was deepest, darkest jet, coal black. Black as the ace of spades. Deepest, darkest night. Black as the hair on these young Indian labourers cycling up and down Geylang Road by Tasvee as we speak.
Did he have some kind of wife at home? Was the poetry for the lads out of house? What was going on here?
....And this other among the men must be on the cusp of ninety, if not tipped over already. On earlier occasions he had not been seen out of his chair. When he was helped with his dressing before going out his trouser belt had gathered the waistband in a little bunch of fabric. Very slow on his feet. With the aid of his walking stick covers the ground. One leg gone on him, no more than a peg. By all appearance undiminished faculties.

Celebration

Our shopping centers must be full of similar regular entertainment. Chadstone, Southland and the rest. Even the celebration of the founding of the Armed Forces perhaps, as down here in the forecourt of Singapore National Library on Victoria Street. The Hollywood musical is the form: high wattage amp blaring, a chorus line of young kids stepping, MC calling children up onto the stage for mock interviews and give-aways. 

The camp element fully represented with the soldier boys impressively kitted out, rifles in place of batons, thrusting and lunging. The chief MC spent a lot of time in the US. Voice perfect for this kinda thing. Almost as good as the original—rhythms, jokes, fillers all adeptly handled. Given the importance of the particular matter—National Security after all—the girl is probably from the TV ranks, carefully selected for the position.

         Better, Stronger this year's tag.

         The flights of the migs and the heavier bombers not as numerous lately. Given the size of the island, invariably the planes fly very low. How else to land on their own territory. Not surprisingly, the Malaysians have been complaining of encroachments into their air space. Very easily done here. By the time the jets are up and air-borne, deceleration would need to be activated in order not to over-shoot the territory. Thousands of invasions the Malaysians have recorded in the past few months, all deftly denied by the Singaporeans, initially with the standard no comment.

A tricky little balance in power and neighbourly relations, here as anywhere else. 

Yesterday's front page news reported an amiable exchange of land on the border. The matter had been attempted a number of years without success. Even old man Lee Kwan Yew didn't manage to bring it off ten years ago, after numerous diplomatic meetings.

         A couple of generations ago of course, before the split, Malaysia and Singapore were one country. The Joo Chait area now interesting as a minority Malay quarter. It and Geylang by far the most interesting places thus far, three weeks into the trip.

Karaoke

The market stalls and the stage that had stood beside Joo Chait Complex the last fortnight had been all but disassembled overnight. Two Saturdays running a talent quest had featured, a kind of Open Mic Karaoke where young and old had participated. A large crowd had been drawn Sunday for the finale. Great number of karaoke bars roundabout. (From memory Bambang Yudohonyo was a keen crooner?) 
         The event might have been devised by the traders, the music a draw for potential customers. Certainly the people came. Some afternoons a professional band played, the lads in their stage suits like the APEC leaders for the group photos. 
         The familiar faces from the street climbed up on stage and collected the mike like seasoned pros. Older Elvis fans sporting dyed jet manes; pint-sized Suzi Quattros with elastic G-strings showing above jeans when they squatted low with the pull and tug of the song. 
         All the contestants knew the moves. Video hits played big in this part of the world clearly.
         Geylang Serai is the largest Malay quarter in Singapore. Scarved hijab women, young and old. Nails, hands and feet brightly painted, the fleshiness of faces accentuated by tightened scarves. Lipstick, face powder, eye-liner and lashes, really going to town.

         G. Serai dazzled the live-long day. The vivid flowers of the former forest trucked into the market opposite bloomed in the street fashions.
         None of these women in the traditional dress got up on stage during the fortnight. They might have known the moves and had the voices, but these talents were kept under wrap, left for the mirror behind closed doors perhaps. Meanwhile no lack of appreciation for those who could turn it on, the Suzi Qs very much included.
         Sunday there must have been a couple of hundred in the audience for the finale, one of the surprising stars the tubby carpet seller on the near corner. Many kept the same seats over the fortnight. Passersby with their shopping greeted and detained. Children and babies. Two or three dozen bikers attended Sunday in full leathers. 
         The audience jived in front of their chairs, old ladies rocking in their seats, a smashing good time had by all. 
         Entirely alcohol free of course, when it looked like spirits had been lifted by a wee dram. Even in the supermarket at the bottom of Joo Chait Complex it did not seem to be on the shelves.

The Iron Horse

The bicycle feature. Helmets nowhere to be seen (sometimes the lycra lads sport them). Nights rarely a light in sight. Pillion passengers are common, usually in the style of the post-war French: cobblestoned street, fountain, ornate facades, and rounding the corner one of those heavy, dark work-horses with the long-haired girl seated on the luggage rack, long dress hiding the wheel. On Geylang the working girls are driven to Love hotels in this same fashion. Erect grannies and grandpas ride up and down using the bells for greeting those at the pavement tables as much as for warnings. Hawkers have their wares arranged—plastic sacks of tea hanging from the handlebars, soft toys mounted, boxes of curry puffs. Cardboard and aluminum fossickers. More striking still the braking system usually employed by the foreign workforce, the mainland Chinese and Indians. Fred Flintstone resort on the thoroughfares of Singapore, even Victoria Street itself—steel-capped work-boot coming off the pedal at the intersection, thick heavy sole providing excellent traction. With practiced weaving and dodging through the heavier, less nimble vehicles, anticipation of the moves and the stalled traffic, what more could one need? The young fellow in the hard-hat just now through and away.

Commerce on Geylang

Top Stainless Steel Industry double frontage (shop benches, display cabinets, ovens chained on the footpath). Palyul Nyingma Buddhist Association's red interior highly decorated next door, the shoes massed at the entry 9 pm on a Saturday belonging to the mainly young people visible over the floor. Beside Katong Dental Surgery; on the other side of which De Sheng Trading “Specialising in Car Aircon, Battery, Alternator, Starter, Wiring”. Sign out on the stand in front mounted on rusty truck wheel-hubs. The mechanics and tyre replacement lads work into the evening, footpath strewn with their tools and pieces. Finally, last in the snapshot of the row—it goes on and on—3 Wines Pte Ltd, where they had a tasting yesternight. Never before such a gathering witnessed in the area, the black of the dresses and their cut marking the women out from the more colored, ornamental night ladies who pass up and down on this commercial strip grouped in precisely this same way for three kilometers. 
         Geylang. The middle end. The Malay quarter down at the lower.

Poets and Sages

A dozen or more in the gathering this afternoon in the windy forecourt of the library. At the head of the table on the far side the man in the chair gave a fine salutation, directed at the panama quite likely. An active, engaged assembly again today, and that without the presence of the usual leader of the group. Earlier in the afternoon he had been sighted in his usual prominent seat; now his absence created space for some of the others, if they could rise to the occasion. Without this man's steering, without his lead and contribution, it was a question what the men might manage on their own resources.
         For a time the conversation proceeded in brief exchanges from various points around the joined tables. Small little ventures were offered that drew like answers and elaborations. None in this gathering seemed likely to hold court in the manner of the absent leader. Under his sway the group often seemed cowed or hesitant; through his harangues, as they seemed, most of the men sat quietly without meeting his eye. In the rhythm and mannerisms of the language, the domination of this speaker seemed less of an imposition. There was no lack of gesturing, of volume in the performance. The body posture, the way the man held upright in his seat—and at that age—clearly marked him as alpha male. Yet somehow even quite long speeches from this man did not seem over-bearing. Liberal smiles that hardly left his face possibly a large part of the impression.
         This afternoon a daughter sat among the men. She sat beside the man who had greeted the panama at one end of the tables. Usually the men were unaccompanied. They came after lunch and sat on late into the afternoon. As in the present case, there were often more than a dozen gathered in the inner section nearer the library entry. Once or twice a lesser group has been found in the main seating at the smaller tables.
         Neat, dapper men; shirts and slacks, more than half with pens clipped in the pockets. The elastic linked metal watchbands that pinched hairy wrists and were popular a couple of generations ago prominent. Most of the men were close to eighty; two or three of them clearly beyond the mark. It was difficult to judge their station in life. Age had leveled distinctions. The generic clothing and lack of ornament produced a uniformity. They all lived close to the city centre it seemed. Somehow they didn’t appear to be retired managers or businessmen; that was not the prevailing impression. All of the men fine, hale specimens; none needed any close particular attention. The daughter today sat listening for the most part. Contributions from her when they came were minor. More than anything it was apparent there was appreciation for what the woman was hearing.
         With the drift of conversation and its small measures attention easily wandered. An initial impression suggested an uneventful meeting in the offing, a quiet little hiatus between lunch and dinner. Without the forceful, dominant leader there might have been a little more ease apparent. Good natured exchanges; regular smiles; the afternoon petering slowly. There was hardly an empty seat in the place, largely due to the size of this gathering of old men. 
         At some point in the lulled motions a voice at the far end, directly opposite the panama salute, the counterpart of that man almost ten metres distant, was into its stride. A particular rhythm in the voice was what drew attention. In fact all other sound and movement had been stilled by the chap. There was none of the little shuffling and turning of heads this way and that. The eyes were not necessarily focused on the far end of the table, but the grip of attention was unmistakable. 
         The figure of the speaker was not promising. There was nothing like the firmness and uprightness of the absent leader. This man bent over in his seat as he spoke, his jaw hanging loosely. Of the entire group, he was perhaps the least prepossessing. False teeth may have been a bad fit. Keeping his mouth closed when he listened seemed not possible for this man. 
         As he recited now from his chair the man beat out rhythm and line, not just with his hand before him, but with his whole person. The nodding head, rolling shoulders, the beaming eyes were carried by the motion within. Fully in the sway of his piece, he had seized the attention of the entire group. Clearly he was reciting some well-known, authoritative text. The lilt and movement made it clear it was verse and nothing else. There were perhaps a dozen long lines all together; perhaps more. All without fumbling or pause. Even with the less than impressive figure he cut, the performance was commanding. When he was done it seemed an unrepeatable feat that could only have come off in the most propitious of circumstances. 
         The girl who was asked later for translation guessed old Chinese opera. The dialect defeated her. Cantonese, she agreed it might be. On the other side a couple of lads a little older than the girl, engaged with an iphone game, had no interest in the old men.
         Rather than completely stunning the gallery, hard on the heels of this performance it was the man at the other end, the acknowledger of the panama indeed, who rose to the challenge. Now he responded in kind with lines of his own. A shorter passage of verse this, but with the same unmistakable hallmarks of rhythm and momentum. After this reply came some rejoinders from the sidelines, commentary and interpretation it might have been, from more than one quarter. The two men at either end of the tables had taken up their positions as if pre-arranged; as if by prior consent from the others. To the second's rejoinder there now followed more from the first man, the slack-jawed, bent man, who had a good deal of store in his memory. Once more he gave a compelling recitation, somewhat shorter than the first, but numbers of lines again and lacking nothing of force and conviction.
         In the theatre the silence and attention is rarely ever stretched as tight as it was here. Old men, four score and ten one of them on his walking stick. A stroke had perhaps resulted in his unusual, dragging stride. To think that men of this age could hear anything so captivating.
         The duel was over. The major speaker seemed a little dissatisfied; what he had delivered seemed insufficiently acknowledged. The bright sunniness of the man at the other end beside his daughter avoided the issue that had been raised. Other voices entered the discourse. Conversation fragmented at a couple of points in the circle.
         The man with the poets and sages at his finger-tips brooded on. His jaw hung, the teeth visible down to the gums. The picture he presented could not have been further from his performance moments before. A jaw could never be imagined to hang as low as that. These chaps could not be retired academics either.
         Two of the men handed over books to others, one of which particularly made a slow round of the tables. One of the men leafed through the pages looking for a passage. It was he who must have produced this volume in the first place. Along the inner line of the passage-way, back turned, he sat in the middle of the throng. This man was at the upper limit of the age group. Unlike the others, this man carried some bulk. His jowls hung a little heavily; owlish eyes accentuated by high eyebrows.
         The passage had been found. The open page showed sparse columns of characters, with headings for individual poems or stanzas. Seeming to know that a reading was in store, the other men waited.
         When the owlish man had found his precise place, he gave voice. Short lines again, much shorter than the earlier recitations from memory. This was a very particular kind of reference, a little abstruse possibly; a little item out of the box. Shortly before this reading there had been a bolstering of numbers. One or two other men had joined the circle. Newcomers and the others alike had all listened respectfully. 
         Another book passed on after the brief reading. The paperback from which the quotation had been taken went back into the Owl’s pink supermarket shopping bag. In the book's place, from the same emerged a foolscap-sized exercise book. When the man leafed through the pages the paper showed discoloured. Where he stopped sparsely spaced penciled characters ran in columns down the page. It was an old notebook, long in use, long carted around. Mandarin characters could never be scrawled carelessly presumably. How might the poets have composed then? How else but in their heads.

Mee Rebus

Should have remembered from last time with Albadorah. Mee Rebus is a light kind of stew over noodles; in this case egg omitted in favour of potato and green bean-like pieces that didn't really look like paprika. Not the hot kind anyway. The colour innocuous enough. Perhaps the seeds should have given the hint. A better follow-up to the Listerine gargling of half an hour before would have been difficult to find. Cereal for breakfast impossible to procure in this eastern quarter of the city. An American suggested a hotel buffet as the only option. At eighteen dollars for that privilege, it's rice, noodles and veg for the duration here. (Kellogs Cornies from the supermarket shelves declined, thank you very much.)
The MRT far less crowded after 10am. Dozing figures all along the route into town - the train, young work crew at the eateries, corpse-like figures of old men with rigor mortis stretched in shady alcoves of the shopping complexes. Those without aircon collapse here mid morning. Had it going throughout the last two nights in the hotel room.
An interesting room on the 14th floor of a HBD inspected last night. Very nice couple of Indians: journo landlord and IT tenant. Housing towers all round, not dissimilar to our Housing Commission, but better maintained. Top end of Geylang appealing as a location. Without aircon how to adapt?
From the eighth floor of the Singapore National Library - arts and humanities reference - the HBDs outside the window fly their flags on the sunny side of the building, waiting for the sun to emerge from the cloud. The washing hangs from short poles that emerge from the balconies at a slight up tilt. Towers in the more expensive estates forbid the practice. Property values take account of any hint of the slovenly of course.
A final tidbit: a reminder at these tables here that sneezing is always choked in Singapore. A full, outward, completed sneeze is never let fly in this city state. Not among the down-at-heel; neither in the CBD. The sound is like a sneeze that escapes one at the last second, never quite coming off. My bet is it's another remnant of the British - like caning and so much else here. From the time of a public health drive during a flu epidemic perhaps.

Ascot

The MRT announcer's voice makes you think of early sixties' pleated skirts, frilly blouses and high heels — in fact the prevailing style on the streets in the inner hub here. Ascot back in the news again and Princess Margaret.
Please Mind The Platform Gap.
Lavender..... Lavender.
The Suspicious Parcels warning.
Makes you think of rough handling, lipstick smears, earnest wordless hammer behind a closet door.
The forms of empire have not ended here. Somerset. Admiralty. Lavender. Raffles..... The merry-go round continues, called by the Dux of the elocution class from the boyhood school of Lee Kwan Yew.
In the old British manner of social order, they still cane here judicially a few thousand times a year — tied and bent naked, buttocks protruding. The full-force strength of the assigned disciplinarian stipulated in the statutes (paid per stroke). The concession to humanitarian concerns no more than twenty four strokes administered on a single occasion. In addition to padding of the kidneys.
Oh but that honey with the jeweled vowels! A captivating torment.

Cool Night

Two young handsome Indian lads on an outdoor table under one of the verandahs on Geylang. In their saris relaxed and easy, washed and refreshed after the working day. Nine PM cool, with a breath of air. The sky almost black here every night. It's possible the air comes from the ubiquitous fans at the eatery tables; together there are more than enough along the street to generate a proper breeze. The two lads sit on the table. There is no lighting there; the shopfront behind has pulled down its shutters. The table has been left out; no chairs. The pair sit on the table-top, not much more than a metre square. They sit comfortably, in close conversation. Legs bent on either side, a couple of hands on the table-top, one in the air with the movement of the talk. A wrist carries a bracelet of tightly-strung round polished wooden beads. Light is cast by the eyes of each on the other. One can't under-estimate the ease and openness of the young pair; an inch leg from leg. Some kind of dark material covered the table-top: they hovered there.

Luke

This morning at an isolated outdoor table at The Coffee Bean three young schoolgirls with books spread. The table was positioned around the side nearer the Post Office beside the MRT. On first passing it seemed some kind of school revision, studious types working even over the June holidays. One of them was leading at that point, carrying the discussion.
         Coming out from the P.O. it seemed even possible it was Cus. Serv. gee-up underway, one of the girls sporting a shop tee with the advertising on the rear. Assistant Manager rallying the troops before lunch-hour.
         But the small fat books on the table. Dense text. Was that the telltale wafer thin paper?
         All open at the same page....
         Indeed. Extra-curricular. A weekly get together, whether school was in or out.
         Smiles all round. Good serviceable English; nice girls.
         The same question as for the girl at the library table last week consulting a volume of critical essays on Hamlet, all by Western authors.
         Forceful imposition. Social discipline administered.
         On the streets and plazas chilling listening to parents with their children in creaking, awkward English that is the lingua franca.

Mr. Teh Tarik - opposite Malay Village

Malay mother, Indian father—almost certainly. The young girl, thirteen at most, mouthing a little prayer before bending to her plate; both hands spread and brought to either cheek at the end in a kind of bathing motion. Across the aisle three young grandkids greeting the old man one after the other, taking his hand and bringing it to their foreheads. A young girl following afterward, perhaps seven, shows no immediate sign of any problem. Brought to the old man, however, it is apparent she cannot complete the required greeting, whether it is the same as for the boys or no. Something she babbles with some energy to her mother. Quietly the woman responds. The old man has turned aside now, distracted by someone else. When the son-in-law comes up - he could be none other - it is the touch to the heart he makes after taking the old man's hand; not bringing the hand to his forehead. The woman who takes up the seat beside the old man shows herself daughter. These old familial categories like sci-fi to behold; counterparts of the games in the Net places.
         ....That was yesterday. Today is the prophet Muhammed's birthday. The reason for a larger turn-out in this Muslim quarter. Families again; a tour bus perhaps from Malaysia, many young girls of eleven or twelve among the group in the scarves and flowing wraps (make-up and lipstick more often than not even at that young age). Around beside the market a particularly large gathering, with guests and a feast. The speakers in fact almost all women: Professor so-and-so and Government functionary such-and-such. Numerous invitations from people to join them at table.
         Earlier over a late breakfast at Mr. Teh Tarik again, the extended Malay family displaying something new in the greetings. More than half a dozen times the elder woman—filling the middle position in her early/mid thirties of aunt and sister-in-law—pulls her hand away abruptly once the hand clasp has been effected, just as the tug is given from the younger female toward her forehead. For the grandparents, the elders, this does not happen; only for these middle-ranking, letting off the marginal juniors lightly. They have not had their hands successfully brought up to the other's forehead once; not even close. Their jerks more forceful than the other's tugs. All nicely arranged.

Tipping Point

EXPECTATION
         blazing high on the shoulders of the Indian lad sauntering past with long, slow strides.
         That gets it about right. Not that he'd strictly know.
         And hot on his heels almost (5 mins later), boy fully fifteen years old with that forgotten image of the young girl lifted off her feet reaching for a cluster of balloons.
         The old classic shot. From around the time of the Skipping Girl in Melbourne perhaps.
         Cloth faded, old tee. But the lad fully fifteen. Shaving next year.
         ...What happens for these assignations between the foreign Chinese workers and the girls from those same parts when they make it? Like the pair crossing here just now. Do the lads clear outta the dorm for a half hour? Do they turn to the wall perhaps like in the old Russian films?...
         By complete fluke forty minutes later, the clasped hands of the happy couple descend the stairs opposite the Net place. An hourly hotel.

Another Place and Time

Who Moved My Cheese, the quiet, studious type from yesterday set before her this afternoon at the same cafe table at the library—halfway along the row, right of the aisle.
         Hair-band, flounces over the blouse and somewhat lighter lippy than many her age favour. (The lasses here adopt more often than not.)
         Good, obedient daughter, if in the next year or two she doesn't jump a fast moving train.      
         Mouthing the new words like yesterday—that as much as the seating position and features gave the identification.
         On her side the panama making things easy.
         Various crowd. Old fellas from the neighbouring HDBs who lived through the Japanese occupation, office gals, after-school kids. Not all patrons of the library.
         Rather better than Starbucks and The Coffee Connoisseur.
         Westerners and foreign students. French in strength because of the corporate cluster.
         $4.50 latte—eschewed by the old timers who drink the local, dark kopi.
         ....Yes, the gal keen to improve her English. But this was not the main reason for that particular book. Fun the larger factor. A funny book.
         No disturbance, let alone nuisance.
         — It's really nice to chat to you.
         Unlikely the sweet will be clambering that runaway train, the bet at this stage.
         Where does a lass even in Malvern or Doncaster down there read the Cheese book at 15-16, I ask you?

Valued Customer

Finally caught the polite, thankful gesture for the return of change here at TASVEE Restaurant (24 Hours). The second hand falls high on the inside of the leading forearm which carries the notes and coins, quickly following up. Two fingers in this instance as if taking the pulse, almost in the crook of the elbow. A lingering touch and display, often with a bowing of head, as Mabel does at Joo Chait reception. In her action Mabel's hair falls forward, emphasizing the bow. The Chinese don't seem to have it as part of their exchange; Indians and Malays more so. Mabel is ethnically Chinese, but from Malaysia. Back in Footscray Faisal might have performed the same action.

Knickers

Lion City Hotelon Kallang Road was it? $120 per night. Two years ago it was $89. They did half-days too there, unlike Joo Chait, which specifically disclaims the practice, warning against transients, illegal sex and sex gadgets, minors and a couple of other things on their plastered notices. Some of the girls waiting for their partners to sign-in might raise an eyebrow if one were picky.

  Beside Lion Citystands Slimming Sanctuary, the pic of the girl on the billboard clasping her nakedness making it look so easy. Not a bathing cap that, she' was wreathed in flowers like a garlanded empress. The treadmill and exercise bike in that sanctuary made burning the fat off a walk in the park.
  The covered Muslim ladies got by with less grief, their curves and fatty bottoms packaged in colourful printed wraps. Frisson and a half following them on the path. And then the hidden reds, crimsons and violets underneath not a difficult guess. Trays of them sat out front on the narrow walkway beside the food court, where the articles were turned over one by one for the best buy, for strength, elasticity, cut and design. Nothing untoward; shopping like any other. Certainly nothing in the Qur'an forbids the husband's pleasure. Hubbies were rarely in tow along there, effect entirely robbed sighting the articles prematurely, esp in those piles.
 Lion Citybusinesses of other kinds down further. A couple concrete lions too guarding narrow shop entryways. International totem old Leo.
  Food was the counter against the expense of accommodation. A filling vegetarian meal usually $3 a throw—outside the posh inner zone of course. (Seven dollars latte at TCC—The Coffee Connoisseur—yesterday near Bugis MRT and the Sing National Library. Average to bloody boot.)

Plate-collector

The plate-collector can't be far short of seventy. A dishcloth fashioned for a head-scarf. More than half bent. Slippers five sizes too big. Inching over the tiles using her trolley as a walking aid. None pay her regard. Wiping the table while two beefheads continue their conversation giving her no mind at all. Reaching across them, still they don't see her. At our table earlier she had refused assistance. First one item, then another. No. Then inexplicably she had motioned toward the plate to the side of Nance, calling for that. Perhaps it was because of gender. Possibly she expect no male to ever lift a finger. And nor will she accept anything from them. Yet a few minutes later the Caucasian coke-drinking lad obliges her in some way that was missed. A Thank You might have come from her, something of that order. All rather puzzling. Let's see what happens with us as next cab off the rank again now that the meal is done.... But no. She circles away, wheeling off around the corner. Not through to the DISHWASHING AREA however. Doing better than the lavatory attendant perhaps. Despite there being a coin operated turnstile, this woman presumably supervises the tissue paper, cleaning too. Her seat is beside the the narrow entry. Cleaning the spills has to fall within her ambit. A pouch worn low slung on her hip for the coin. The other still not making a reappearance...... There she goes. Unsure from where she could have appeared. A real stagey entrance. Style all her own in everything she performs. NO to the first plate. Nance's move toward her plate to help her also receives a decisive NO. The plastic "Pure Soy Organic Soya Powder" container with the straw - that she deigns not only to accept: this she calls for. Nance adjusts obligingly. Only then, in her own special order, does she collect the other items one by one, scraping, tossing, sorting cutlery as she knows. Dishcloth rinsed out in a veritable soupy swill in her container attached to the trolley, before she moves to the table surface. NO once again to moving the diary. This she wants to remain in place. She wipes around it. Two-three passes this way and that. That'll do. No more. (Rather a strong resemblance to Kunie Yoshimoto as she will be in another thirty years.)

The Street - Again

— Can I have a carrot juice? No ice. Just carrot.

         — Sugar?
         — No sugar. Thank you. Namaste handclasp. All overdone of course, but how else to communicate? (The English speaking waiter. The Chinese lad who'd be so perfect for film - a hard man killer or getaway driver - doesn't parle vous, one or two of the Indians likewise.)
         The eternal foot-slog. Eternally captivating.
         Two dollars, with a gap for the missing ice. That's the deal. Can't expect carrot all the way to the rim. They're alert to that trick.
         ....Second and third take needed and only then confirmed. Head tossed back at the shock: a white tee with light grey in the motif difficult to read.
         TCHAIKO -
         At the Chinese "Green" supermarket the other day it was either Swan Lake or the Nutcracker encouraging the customers. Unlike the big bash out on the squares and street corners roundabout here. Big number rock 'n' roll bluesy blasts from the Indon performers, raunchy crooners all. Legless drunk on the other side. Thank god for his stout through-thick-and-thin companion. Mid twenties unusual skunk straight like that. Lack of aircon makes the street a must. Not to mention the expense where it's had by the slightly better off. Swiveling the head around at one's fellows down here makes the heat more bearable. Infinitely preferable to the lonely room, the confinement, trash on the box, listening to the wife. Weariness necessary for sleep in the sweatboxes. Cheeky old codger going past on his unlighted iron horse against the traffic ringing his bell, accompanying grin bright as the street light. (Knowing not to show his gap-toothed smile.) Target more than likely the old creased heavy-lidded lizard sitting over his teh tarik with one of the older, less comely mainland Chinese lasses. Zero reaction forthcoming.... Old fella like him thinking to get it up...Ho-ho-ho. This one'd be perfect for the flicks too. Bar-room owner, everything goes down at his joint.
         Number of monks each day not recalled two years ago. Often recognizing a like soul - young lads just beginning on that road. Some fair guesswork possible by the facial features. Shy ones, reticent, resourceful. Humourless, preoccupied, over-wrought. More than anything, everywhere and on every face a coming to terms; no restlessness or rebellion. Net place without a free seat anywhere. Games predominating, skype with family back home, child held up to the camera, a girlfriend or sister. Sunday, the orange-haired Chinese boy manning the desk explains. Reason for the less lively street too. Not like Saturdays and Fridays. Checking-in back home Sundays, play-up the other days. Fit for the challenge these labourers, working girls the same. Like the sixty year old cycling by with the cardboard pieces mounted up on the rack behind her. Not likely she's going to roll over and die. There is no fate that cannot be overcome by disdain, said the French prose-poet.
         The bone structures and the colours here. Endlessly one after the other trooping past in the gutter where the passage is less cluttered. You artists lay down and die. You aint seen nothing. (With your inner eye.) The aluminum can gatherer's large bin mounted on his bicycle rack, plastic bags for the extra. Good night's fossicking. The portrait painter an absurdity. All those delicate souls back home at their study, their pics in the magazines. Capturing this facet and that. Of the notables of course, Archibalds and the rest. The glimpse, the breath within. Be told you deceivers one and all, you playground playthings. Deceiving yourselves first of all. Most accept the acknowledgement; surprised to receive it some. Quite often. The note-taking a corroboration of sorts. Between the ages of twenty and mid-thirties - full strength of the working man. The Viet girls down the road are often mid-teens; unlike the Mainland Chin lasses. Yet it's the lads that captivate most of all. History and the future all contained there. Familiar unknowns. Our own gastarbiters from the late sixties/early seventies they recall, cut very much from the same cloth.

Chinatown

Chinatown. Draws all the slow-strolling seeking Westerners. Wary of the touts, knowing a bargain and what they like. Gotta love the peddlers here, salespersons par excellence. The woman tosses down the three packets of tissue onto the unopened diary. SLAP. Dear Diary!... Ouch. She wasn't to know. No beg pardons, jabbering something other than apology. Nance when she gives her the brush-off puts on her severe bulldog face and waves the hand up at her. Point taken, no offence; the Witch turns on her heels in a flash. How did she collect the goods without reaching out even her little finger?

Strutting

The tees all semaphoring mixed, scrambled meanings. Terribly skewed often. Parodies of the cruelest kind often. HEROES NEVER DIE, proclaimed by a ragged, gap-toothed urchin-type the lean side of forty. Lion motif for some boutique housing development sported by one of the Indian chain-gang lads trooping past. I’M SINGLE BUT UNAVAILABLE declared by conservative mid-teen Malay lass in the morning, walking past with her parents (mother shrouded), who couldn't possibly guess the tease strutting along the street. (Unintentionally. Nothing of the vamp here - which of course might raise the temperature of naughty, keen types.
         Sends even an innocent fellow reeling, battered and tossed pillar–post.
         BOYS CLUB FRANKFURT. In the wrong place the pretty lad'd get a rude shock walking that around.

Singapore National Library

Café attached rather better than Starbucks, which was passed up along the way in the Bugis shopping maze.
         One good thing: waiting staff special young people carting trays before them with gently lolling heads.
         The neatness at Reference entirely suspicious. Stacks appeared completely unused. The kind of shelves and rows made to order for pristine PR media releases that make a politician look good.
         The Humanities Reference section—possibly the reason. Biz Management and the like on the floors below.
         Remarkable rows of untouched volumes, unbroken spines, in perfect order and alignment.
         Up here your correspondent by far the oldest male at the tables, anywhere over the carpeted halls. A fright really. Where is my hometown bedraggled ancient who pops up every so often—first sighted at Soulfood was it years ago? Prior to departure the creased and crumpled angel was spotted in the larger room beside Reference at City Library going hell for leather into a lined exercise-book. Treat to behold. What was that text on top of his pile now? A history of the Soviet empire? Latin America? Something pertinent and noteworthy.
         A pleasure to find a stand evidently recently donated to the institution by the French Charge D’ Affairs, or some such. Celine! Virilio & Debord. Genet what was more! Lee Kuan Yew would have a spastic fit did he only know. The half of it did he know. (Never will the volumes be read here for all that. Not with Climate Change shortening the odds so sharply, vulnerable island.)

American Football

Willing safe-crossing for these lame elderly navigating the 4-5 lanes of traffic. The only possible method for them is to hazard the lines one by one like the greatest parody of football players achieving acreage. Still never a accident. So many nights. So many crossings. A fine arrangement between pedestrian and driver.
....Ah my darlings. My sweet angels. Can they be fully seventeen? Orange blossom flounced dress and cupped young pert breasts. As if their full budded beauty needed emphasizing. – No sentimentally you dolt. You stupid foolish thing. So richly did you sup on all that pretense. You stupid. Shut the fuck up and no more.
- Giant teenage girls too to throw one into the bottom of the pit. Dashed brains. Drowning in one’s vomit. One point nine five easily. Could easily be over two metres. This companion a woeful judge. As tall as you, she thought sufficient for surprise. Nineteen at the most. A little short-arse, spectacles and head-band, she had under her affectionate clasp, arm drapped from on high. A local more than likely. The pimps couldn't do anything with her. Dear girl, may your path be bordered by primroses.

Grace on Geylang (Singapore)

Cab hailing has a style all its own here. Whether working girls, the slave workers from the sub-continent, the local elderly, all follow the established form. One suspects in the city centre, the business class, the technocrats, the finance jockeys and the rest will have a different manner, something more fitting their status. Less pleading or artfulness; more command. Arm fully extended, at a slight downward angle, fingers butterfly wings beating gently. The roadway tenderly caressed; fluttering and rippling in the way of running water elsewhere than these tropics. Not easy to get a taxi here even for young beautifully leggy and operatically dressed lasses. They too have to hang the hand out and tinkle feelingly, pleading.

Culture Shock. On the road: first stop Singapore

Hose in the bathroom. No time to be shocked or finnicky; no standing on ceremony. Not a problem did the soap in the dispenser out in the hallway do its work. Plenty of rich yellow color, like some of the curry they serve in these Indian places—the button gives ample. Three good latherings and rinsings to no effect. The stink of mortality. Possibly one of the Indian lads at the adjoining tables comprehended. Insufficient care taken with the sniffing. Second attempt, another three latherings and rinsings. Gotta be satisfied with that, vestige of doubt or no.

Mask

Thought returned—there was every chance for it. That nearer Jap girl yesterday on the bench-seat, constructed in the mould of the Russian Matryoshka doll: squat, neckless, helmet hair-style; warm and animated for all that, a bright, attractive spirit… Still now it is quite unclear whether it might have been Tomoko No.2. Unlikely, but by no means impossible. So much was in accord. The look, proportion, manner, thin voice, colouration (a native kind of farm-girl flush. Tomoko hailed from a remote Prefecture). Neatness and matronliness completely consistent. Fitting perfectly the picture of an orderly, efficient and responsible nurse. The thought more than a little preposterous, yet not to be discounted. Even after an exchange of a number of pleasantries. Her side too the European of a certain size, proportion, colour could easily remain undifferentiated. This would not be the first occasion where such a thing occurred. The racial mask.

Dirty Street

Fine young Somali girl this afternoon waiting for her lift opposite the café entrance. (Faisal’s cautionary comment was her youth; he has no real eye for the ladies.) Lovely in her warm colours, covered almost entirely, apart from the small oval of her exposed, only slightly fretful face. Checking her phone which she kept down at arm’s length. Pinks predominating in the low colour pulse—the headscarf and the detail of the body wrap. An old fashioned parchment cardigan, fully buttoned, hid her womanly form. More than anything else her posture expressed her loveliness, the deep and thorough settled being. In her free hand her dress clutched, hem lifted from the dirty street, the footpath edge where she waited which was especially dirty. Flat-footed, shifting her weight, impatience all minor key, restlessness subdued. From the position she had taken up she did not stray. Did not wander one way or the other. Chiefly movement was of the head and only toward the oncoming traffic, flat expression, never pursing her lips. Twenty minutes she might have stood in the same position and disappeared as suddenly as she had appeared.

Car Sick 3

Cool wintry mornings the reflected heat gives a brief charge of radiance—like coming indoors from the cold and reaching for the burning logs in the grate. A pleasure hit, mainlining serotonin. Sometimes when it’s a B double one gets the first blast and then basks in the expectation of the second coming. No particular glare or signal given. The painted steel doesn’t give off, nor tarpaulin and plastic coated. It doesn’t happen often; no good chasing it on the Freeways and in the jams. On each occasion the gift comes anew because unanticipated. Indeed, the first few times it happens disbelief overcomes.

In Passing (Lygon)

The poet said well: the eyes slide from the passersby going along. Does no good for either side, observed or observer, looking too hard. Usually does no good; can't always be avoided. The smartly dressed Italo passing on Lygon this afternoon gained nothing from the switch-blade look, nor certainly the piercing stab that followed. Reason being the altogether inferior hair-piece. What was he thinking? Perhaps the duck-tail behind wasn’t tucked properly this morning; come loose during the course of the day, the footfalls; &etc. On the other hand the Tiamo owner buying fruit down the far end didn’t mind the close attention drawn by his pointy black buckled shoes that Berlusconi himself must have reserved for the bunga-bunga parties. A treat; leather of a kind rarely seen on the street. Pretended not to notice, the man. Nice chap. Emptied his coins into the hands of the beggar sitting on the footpath outside Readings. Mostly it doesn’t do to have the eyes on stalks. Certainly not examining every passing face, every mark of weakness and woe. Nor beauty either. Those compulsive days of hard looking were over. Pass on by, Stranger.