Sunday, July 31, 2011

R-e-l-a-x


These Food Courts. The normalized behavior. Candy-colored stage-sets with staff in the various company livery. Insistent piped music.
         A question: Is Singapore the global capital of the false eyelash? Does some other place on earth surpass?
         Soup Spoon's range starts at $6 up to $8 and more for some kind of meal-deal. 

         Ordering over the pre-heated pots, then follow to the register. Three dozen entries on the screen.
         Re-orchestrated and arranged old favorites like a biological virus everywhere you bend an ear. Sweet Lucy Brown big finale lifting the floor tiles. Only those new to the experience hear possibly; the remainder immune, inoculated with anti-bodies.
         Crystal Jade My Bread one corner. Itcho Sushi opposite, with staff in their Mama's Kitchen get-up. Tight olive green military headscarfs, long-stringed aprons. Busy and alert clearing tables, filling water glasses. Idleness intolerable.

         In front of the shop they have a large flat-screen carrying a continuous loop of the young CEO of Itacho leading a homely TV Mummy-never-been-fucked type through their food preparation factory. Finest fish selection from ocean depths; surgical dress in the warehouse. Glinting clean samurai knives. Finally made-up Mummy bewitched with a colorful platter of assortments that makes her go Oo-Yum and we never get to learn whether young CEO pokes her. 
         On fifteen minute rotation—length of the average office break out in the general eating area for those who have chosen not to enter behind lattice-work and rice-paper facade.
         Finale an unknown big number to send you packing, brassy forcefulness and stretched notes from the GI type front-man. Drum roll and hard-hat crash.


Hunger


Last lunch for a month for these Malays here; and coincidentally the onset of an anxious month of wandering ghosts released from the underworld ("hell", BeeChoo mistakenly called it last night) for Chinese followers of the tradition of their forebears. Ramadan begins at dawn. The Hungry Ghosts of ancestors crept out with the dark last night in the Chinese quarters to haunt the guilty, the casual and forgetful living. The latter is a kind of All Souls or Halloween, stretching for a month for the Chinese. Burning of paper money began last night on the pavements near the entrances to homes. One young mother with her five year old squatted on their haunches in the alley behind Changi Road tending a blaze. Three larking lads in their twenties had a bonfire going in a side street with embers blowing all over the place. Food is also left out on party-plates for the ghosts: rice, oranges very common and pineapples too, coffee in plastic cups. Incense sticks are stuck in thick cucumber slices. This is one food the poor and homeless won't touch you can bet. Presumably the temples will get more patronage through August. This morning beside City Plaza prayers, chanting and clashing music under a large awning - the only one in this predominantly Muslim quarter.
         Only half the stalls under all the acres of cover round Malay Village are operating at present. With the beginning of the fast tomorrow they will be aiming for the evening release onto the streets. Hungry followers of Mohammed one end meeting famished ghosts of the dearly departed the other who still want to claim their share. Will the young Muslim tearaways display their dissent at the eateries in these quarters? You would guess not. In the city centre it may be a different matter.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Snake




Be I not the sharp deadly shot who I most assuredly be, if that cowboy didn't lose the tip of his little pinkie near the first knuckle not in a kitchen accident nor coming off a bike. (The amputations and limps one sees on all sides round Geylang can only be bike accidents.) For not showing the bros on the street and the surrounding lorongs nuf respect. Younger days that'd be. Greenhorn wild-boy back then. Snake along the heel of the hand it looked first glance, stretching up the pinkie. Unique. Only an opponent would get a bird's eye view of a picture like that. Was it's head cut off with the blade? Just nicked the snout? the spitting tongue?... Couple small eels it might be on second look, wriggling up the hand. More than the first knuckle maybe, though the fingers bent leaning the chin just then. Young fella did indeed doff the cap going by weren't no mistake. And other pictures further up the sleeve too. Wears long to keep it all under wraps now, even in this weather. Mid-late thirties. Almost under the footbridge up from Aljunied crossing. Tough-town hereabouts, from a short age ago. Cleaned up now. Sometimes you see an old fella with his shirt off carrying the history of the docks and sailing days over his back and up and down arms and legs. Comparative gentlemen now on the container ships. Back street hard boys in little remnants still. The sweetness of the boy here not very far beneath one can see. Hiding under the table now it looks like. Knows everyone, youngsters and elders. Shaved on the sides, grown-out on top. Kindly face, knows better now. Takes heck of a time for knowing to rise from the heels of the feet up to the brain, the oldies used to say. Suspects observation from the white guy, the stranger. Right intact, did him a favor there.


Donut


Area Manager making them hop at J. Co. this afternoon, making them look smart. Poor kids. Twitching and jumpy. At the counter he found a speck of some kind on one of the coloured donuts on the trays. The inexperienced lass at the post had let it slip. Indulgence this time. Must keep keen look-out. Into the bin immediately. She'll do better next time he's sure. Avuncular type, straight from the Company-man manual. They give a free, smaller doe with the cafe. Large plate on a tray. Here as elsewhere, every food order, regardless how small, gets a tray. Easy for customer. The smaller doe doesn't appear on the trays under the glass; it's a separate line that doesn't have the crimson, green or yellow topping. For that you pay. Kid unprepared for the passing-up, made him nervous. Why'd he have to get that customer!... But it’s alright. Manager over under escalator putting in a private call by the looks. Needed his credit card. Wallet stuffed and bulging, not with notes but cards. Must be clubs, associations, biz cards too. Had he seen the rejection of the doe he might've blamed it on the boy. Smile not broad enough, didn't sound the Sir loudly enough.... No touching thedoes of course... gloves and tongs of course highly reassuring. Litterless tables this afternoon. Red flash every few secs into Manager's ear—doesn't look to be an implant of any sort. They're little concerned in SIng about rumours of brain tumours. Without resort to the devices the place would fall into nervous collapse within the hour.
         Five dollars Medium sized latte (tall mug). $5.70 Regular. Two options. (Maccas and Starbucks pioneers.) Plastic 5mm stirrers save washing spoons.
         Supermarket fruit-bar under the napkin on the table unspotted. Leave the wrapper when he rounds back for another survey of the lounge area. Consultation with the young store manager on the angle of the magazine rack, the first two poufs. Presents obstacle for entry, mother with pram for example, turn can not. Girl nodding. Important details easy to overlook.
         Stick the wrapper in the mug. Can't miss it there.


Thursday, July 21, 2011

War Photography



"Requiem" was an exhibition here at the regionally well known Nanyang Academy of Fine Art. Photographs of the wars in Vietnam and Cambodia, taken by photographers who lost their lives in the conflict—an unusual theme, and relevant locally because of the three Singaporeans included. The young Indian among them, Charlie Challappah, claiming particular attention as his last photograph of recent bomb victims was taken moments before a shell took both subjects and the photographer himself. 

Robert Capa was the famous name, for his action shot taken during the Spanish Civil War. Like the Iwo Jima flag raising and the recent Saddam statue toppling, Cappa's photograph was later revealed as faked, or staged. 

Some of the photographs in this exhibition might be likewise suspect. Even some of the most arresting, where bayonets threaten captured prisoners. The most compelling photographs depict unusually gruesome scenes that one rarely finds in a gallery; images that cross the line in some instances into raw, unmediated horror. The video game, splatter generation might find some of this material a challenge for their jaded sensitivities.

Three or four pictures of child victims carried a shock. After a country market bombing a boy stares at his mother's dead, leaking body some feet away. Standing before the same scene, a beautiful young woman is caught in the same contemplation. It is only after some time that the boy's injured and badly burnt arm and leg are noticed. Another young boy has been purposely terrified by soldiers, who have pretended to execute his father off camera. The scream of despair the camera catches almost bursts the bounds of the frame. There are many dead and dying bodies throughout the exhibition.

Some beautifully delicate pictures too: landscapes and atmospheric shots—aerial quilt-work rice fields; river clouds and rain patterns—all the more striking given the context. Ancient cultures and tribespeople are often neglected victims of war. A magnificent loin-clothed Vietnamese mountain dweller was likely the last of his tribe; a barefoot Buddhist monk on the paving stones of an ancient temple which might not have survived. In each case, powerfully, if more subtly, suggestive of destruction and ruin. Providing strong counterpoint to some of the expected horror. 

Would the hard, gruesome imagery survive the curatorial judgement for a show back home? Hard to see how, even all these years later. Even with a Centrist government. The history wars by no means dead.

Singapore's stance on public art at present conflicted by the usual tensions. On the one hand looking to foster the industry for its economic spin-offs; and on the other keeping the practice within bounds. Here there was always an acute concern over divisiveness, extremity, disruption. 

Tried and true Western first tier product as usual was the mainframe. Some kind of Russian-middle European Count's fob-watches at the main museum. Jeff Koons' blow-up fluff on the lawn of another major venue had mums and kids posing for the camera.

Yet on the other hand this rather stunning exhibition. Apparently it had already toured the U.S., a small triumph even in Obama's presidency.

In yesterday's paper figures on the arts industry here over the last six or seven years. Art-museum patronage quadrupled for example. The money men were no longer able to ignore the possibilities. Blockbusters aplenty in store.



Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Toast Box



Toast Box could not possibly exist in its native, source culture. England, France, the U.S. This was mimicry pure and simple, pursuit of the outstanding model of success and attainment, adopting the guise, the style and form. Part of the transformation, jumping the train to modernity, to the first, leader world. Nutritionally no doubt it could only be retrograde.

Lad at the hot end, brewing the teas and cafes, chuffed at the Mandarin. Prior to alighting from the bus the small notebook consulted for SOW UNN – or ZHAO UNN may be closer. The routine NI HOW? and SYE-SYE needed to be extended after almost two weeks

— When you back you speak Mandarin, he smiles shyly.

Sailor caps the house style, for boys and girls alike, young and old. Puffed white on top; striped blue band below, elasticised. Same blue in apron and then below simple white tee suffices. High camp.

Couple of long cushioned bench seats, dark faux-leather. Otherwise rustic tables and slatted chairs—doll-sized more or less. 

Prawn noodle soup for the stragglers still living in the past of their coolie fathers and grandfathers.

...— so I think key is...Young company biz strategy meeting left.

Ahead the body-builder: always hard for him to keep his eyes out of the mirrors. The number of hard boiled eggs downed not visible from a distance.

One Indian; two Westerners.

Narrow wooden floorboards allowed to lose their colour—part of the rustic, on the edge of the large, modern shopping complex. Long-bladed fans on the ceiling —from a couple of unobtrusive corners slim-line air-cons do the real cooling. Not yet 10:30AM, much needed. Old paraffin-style lamps on the walls. The wood-framed colonial-era photographs tell the narrative as the British and the others would like it told: a Euro family on a steamboat with Chinese maid suitably attired; another family in the shade of a tree presented for camera, while out back a native in the elaborate dress-up for those entrusted to keep peace and order. (Broad sash over white tunic.) Old Victorian era streetscapes. A pet terrier.

 




Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Pearls

The mid-fifties, early sixties kind of working lady: bob cut, demure décolletage, only just above the knee skirt, and the telltale, signature addition - a tight string of pearls. (No matter the glass.) Not one of the confident, saucy kind. Hesitant. New. Wary of police, immigration. A loner too, never in any kind of company. Both earlier in the week and last night too crossing Aljunied - unlike most of us, waiting for the green. She doesn't stand up at the next corner you could safely wager. Most nights there would be three dozen there leaning against the closed shop shutters, in the midst of an assortment of edgy, hovering men, the sharpest of whom almost with a look of users. Would most of these mainlanders have a child back home with their mothers like the Indonesian maids? If they could get work permits for house-keeping no doubt at all most of them would take it. The pearl without a shadow of doubt. She's not after fast money. Why the careful discrimination by the authorities? The mainlanders might more easily find husbands and settle? Not yet come across an Indon girl found that luck. Not one. A prudent social policy. Chinese floodgates must be kept tightly locked. Female and male. Drips and drabs as needed, at time of choosing, numbers, particular projects, fixed terms.
The poor girl won't make a success by any measure here where raunch prevails among the night angels. Not exactly young either. Catch the eye of the old landlords perhaps passing through. Take them back. Pearls before swine.
This is not a retro as we know it back home. Here it is a dominant strand in the Asian catchup—aping—gotta-get-me-some of the fully realized, successfully attained western woman. Every day on every street in the city you see these odd echoes of bygone days, days of hope, innocence, refinement, poise. In the TV dramas playing in the Eateries the same. There will be raunch in Guangzhou, but there and in HK, Shanghai and Macau, as here in Singapore, there will predominate this early sixties top of the range ultimate fashion-plate. (The spiral beyond that period nothing more than degraded excess: that would be the judgement.) Not as flimsy as our retro.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Holy Man




Flogged fruitlessly in the heat about the streets and outdoor eateries earlier more than likely. Latter part of the arvo had him beat, fagged out, catching the breeze in the wind-tunnel at the base of NLS, like many others do that time of day. Cool shade, green road-side fringe enhancing the effect with waving arms of colour and hiding him pretty much on a recessed bench.
         Something fired out from his seated position when he had been all but passed. From the side, low on the seat, traffic and wind shredding.
         It was some kind of lazy, half-hearted effort from his seated position, just shooting from the hip without taking proper aim. Random almost. Like an afterthought.
         There were reasons for the look on the dial this man was viewing. Afterglow of a pleasant lunch in fine company, smiles and flattery. Leaves a mark willy-nilly. Caught entirely unprepared too.
         Smooth and warbling, unexpected and abrupt; the first greeting in these cases is always too quick to get properly. In many older cultures one can always expect an encounter from a fellow man no matter the circumstances. In India it must be so. Our sort is out of practice.
         The wardrobe adopted by these gallants in their trade compounds the problem. That biz gear is not the garb one expects for friendly, warm, impromptu greetings given just for the heck of it. Not strolling and in passing on city streets certainly. That's the first thing in the surprise that is sprung.
         — You lucky man, seems to be the standard initial gambit. Something to that effect.
         The way it’s delivered it’s clear this is nothing like the familiar, This is Your Lucky Day! routine. No. The look you get for one thing betrays admiration, tinged with a bit of wonderment indeed. This particular chap delivering rather effectively.
         A stranger has been struck by your aura. Your particular, transparent inner spirit that ultimately denotes Good Luck—a fortune in fate. This has been revealed to this man even among the throng on a busy, crowded city street after an exhausting heat. Hailing that precious gift and compulsively giving due acknowledgement: that in a nutshell the burden here.
         To be left floundering in these particular circumstances can be easily understood. There have been warm encounters of all sorts with strangers on the street here, in the eateries, the shopping malls even and on the buses. Even in lifts. (See The Buddha posting of earlier in the month.) The lunch with the girl and the afterglow additional factors in the present case. Even in a foreign city it’s possible to be caught completely off-guard.
         Somehow the head-wrap didn’t register. Incidentals like that evaporate in swelling mysteries of this kind. The chap's eyes gleamed and he made some kind of gesture. Following the remark on the fortune that he beheld, he lifted his forefinger to the spot between his eyes. (There may have been some bushyness there before it was covered.) It was not the Indian pottu or bindi higher on the forehead. This was some kind of chakra point perhaps, the seat of fate or fortune, balance, the indicator for one marked out. The man of insight saw more than other men, careless, unknowing men.
This Brahmin summarized from the self-satisfaction, the buoyant step, panama, open face beneath. Rich pickings. Bon chance. A ripe old touch.
         Risen from his seat, he was medium sized, younger than the one a week before. Blue stripes in the shirt, starch too—the thing would have stood on its own, walked on its own in that wind-tunnel beneath the buildings. Slacks moulding. Blue, navy in this case. (Softer the tone upstairs.) The pulse of warmth emanating didn't enable the polish of the shoes to be confirmed; can be taken as a given. Shiny belt buckle likewise: the full panoply.
         For all the foregoing reasons, however, the fact that the very same ploy had already been tried by an older Sikh, in the very same outfitting at the Starbucks outdoor tables, counting seven, or perhaps ten days earlier, no more, counted for precisely nothing now. The re-run here was being received as a discreet, unique experience, entirely of its own kind. Strange but true.
         This Sikh didn't sign as one of the tribe somehow. There had been no prospect from a distance. The fellow had popped up like a jack-in-a-box. The sexual adventure promising with the luncheon companion over-rode any other messaging in the brain. Nada otherwise. Pulp.
         Up and out of his seat, he delivered himself of two choice morsels, first one, then a second.
Number one: Next month there was happiness arriving. It was in the pipe-line, so to speak. Coming in the desired direction.
         The fortunate about to receive added happiness. Sounds corny now; didn’t at the time. For more than a week the preparation for Ramadan at Joo Chiat had created some kind of expectation for August. The ravenous feasts at Mr Teh Tarik’s fifty tables; sitting amongst that pleasure and relish. Somehow, for no logical reason whatever, the Sikh's prognostication now seemed to chime with inner workings and rhythms. What he said of the coming month accorded. All the work around Joo Chiat. Near two weeks it had been going on.
         The follow-up, Number two, was not bad either. Tailored for such a head under such a panama perhaps.
         The first part a bit garbled, lost in the traffic wash. The key point was at the tail-end:
         — But you think too much.
         In different circumstances, this might have won the fellow a proper hearing. Charts, pictures, herbs, potions—at least he might have been allowed to deliver what he possessed. Especially in the way in which the whole event unfolded, on this particular afternoon and it's airy mood.
         Unfortunately for the feller, he was outta lady luck. Badly. The other, older fucker at the Starbucks tables, while the quarry was still a Starbucks virgin (using the shady tables under the alcove, without once any kind of purchase. How were those kids collecting to know? They didn't give a rat's. And so badly paid and overrun); the turd-head not a week ago had used the very self-same line. Kinda frowned in the delivery of the matter too. Offering sympathy, fellow-feeling almost. Hard it is for him who thinks too much. Alas!
         On the old man's patch, this younger shit-for-brains thought he could nonetheless pull it off in the passing crowd. Chances on his side. So many passing through the city. What was the likelihood?... Had some gold on his fingers like his dad or uncle. Doesn't do any harm. Smooths encounters.
         Who don't like to be flattered as a thinker? Head in the clouds type. Elevated.
         Brought these oily fraudsters moola. The old guy had hooked a young fella shortly after his first Starbucks misfire. Brought him over from near Maccas to a table a little further on under the alcove. (He too liked to do his private business on Starbucks prime shady turf.)
         That turd-poop had actually called himself a holy man no less. Savant was he too he might have said. Inside his wallet he carried pics of what was purportedly himself in a Gandhi saffron wrap, before he had loaded too many fries and oilies. That didn't cut mustard, pass muster in Singapore. Appropriate attire for a fortune dealing chap. The heat wasn't so bad really. They didn't give you the time of day here on the city streets unless you were a proper, respectable gentleman. Savants, holy men, seers, like any other business strategists.
         The poor young buck, tired out and no doubt flagging, perhaps a little downcast in this hard-arse town, had got his hopes up for a little while. Thought to seize something from a mediocre day. Crestfallen when he saw sharpness and adamantine. Pulled away abruptly, wounded. Not a one he could aid.


Mainlanders and Art


Near half eleven, toasting in the heat already and fighting fire with fire at Toast Box, Bugis Junction. (Not exactly for the ambiance.) Warm barley and thick, heavily sugared peanut butter on the wafer. Single slice cut in nine squares with fancy toothpick one corner.
         Couple of matters from a new acquaintance last night over teh tarik at the namesake. But first the tee in Geylang some short while after the chat with Lynn, donned by a Mainland Chinese middle-aged woman a trifle downcast, trudging along the path:
         KOONS
         IS MY
         KUNST
         At speed the graphic unfortunately unable to be identified.
         Oh dear! The surplus fashions piled sky-high in the factory warehouses of Guangzhou big as football stadiums, you can picture! A sight they would be for sore eyes. Never quite making it to the bouvelards of Paris, London or Rome. Pilfered by the nightshift in order to proclaim artistic hierarchies on Geylang among the working girls, the eight hundred dollar (monthly) foreign laborers, the bicycle street vendors, the rag and bone ladies and gents of the current era (cardboard & aluminum in the main).
         The woman concerned would probably like some of the giant puppies on the NY pavements. Back home they plonk such sculptures outside the apartment towers on the river-fronts that target the nouveau riche Asian investor. Buoying up the middle tier of the property market.
         Earlier in the evening Lynn, a Singaporean Chinese of the third or fourth generation, who lives in the neighbourhood, eulogized the safety of the SG streets late into the night and through the wee hours, for gals such as herself who like to wander aimlessly at will. The caning here a small price to pay for such spectacular social order.
         And Lynn like any other native will describe the crass Mainlanders' loudness, their unruliness and bad habits. In a shoe store they will take an item from the rack, examine it, and when it's unsatisfactoriness has been loudly expressed for all to hear, toss it back to its place with disgust. Completely unaware of the impression they have created.
         You can always tell the Mainlanders. Even visitors with a sharp eye out don't have any trouble. An eyeful and a half you betchya.

Friday, July 15, 2011

Turned Eye


The fatty gleaming Indian doing tricks round Tasvee doesn't give up easily, especially not after one too prompt eyeing three weeks ago at first encounter. Ever since beaming her Come-on and last night presented her pitch. 

Gal was a fair judge of a chance, capable of penetrating hidden lusts and subterfuge. She gets about too. Passed one afternoon outside the library and on another occasion the biz district. Both times flashed despite the crowd of faces and briefest glances. Wouldn't have thought those locales held much promise, but the gal would know best. 

Silver stud in the nose complements the neon smile—a powerful dazzle against dark skin; the sole adornment she can afford. Short, but walking tall, cleavage revealing large bust and adding size. The one black dress by the looks. 

Bounce in the step. More front than Myers, as they used to say back home. (Largest department store in Melbourne back at the time.) You have to admire the panache. Popular girl in younger days, before the pratas weighed in. Swagger retained. 

An unlikely duo. The companion looked little value as any sort of pimp or protector. Certainly knows how to make himself scarce without being asked, drops off very quickly. They have been on the road together a good while, covered a lotta ground. 

Some few years older, beard unkempt and grown out like the hair. Tall, not stooped exactly, though that was the impression beside her. A kind of retiring, shy type. The turned eye marking the pair as strongly as her smile, buxomness, forwardness. Kind of talisman. 

Although the eye was clearly turned, one doesn't notice immediately. Not beside the girl. Does he slink off so quickly because they have divined that the eye frightens off custom? Seems likely. A man with a turned eye had less to lose when it came down to any rough-house. A man with a turned eye goes in boots and all. Taking a turned eye man's girl can't be recompensed sufficiently, no matter how many dollars. (And she can’t charge much.) 

The carting of the bags his job. Waiting around, like last night at Tasvee. They take their meals together, share cigarettes, the one she came back with from up the Lorong directly opposite. 

Good and bad shared together equally—the impression was strong. 

The blue and white hopped shirt doesn't get much of a washing; her black hiding the stains. Sometimes he wears a baseball cap or bandana over thinning, long hair. At a guess, he possesses nothing like her command of English. A brother possibly? An old lover on whom she has taken pity seems less likely. Nothing in the behavior either way. 

Last night when she trooped down the Lorong he spotted her a long way off, back down in the deeper dark. Yet he hadn't kept particular look-out. For half an hour he had chatted quietly standing with another Indian beside one of the tables where the other might have eaten. The first time either of them had been in other company. 

Not long after the other left she appeared seemingly unexpectedly. It was clear she had been gone a long time. When she had come out into the light of the street and was waiting to cross, he raised and shook both hands at her over the traffic. 

Where have you been so long? With accompanying hard look. 

Nothing that bothered her too much. Quickly she was on the move again after some sharing of the cigarette. When she moved in one direction he must have immediately moved in the other, disappearing without trace. 

The on-lookers didn’t bother her in the slightest, numerous countrymen among them. She was well known at Tasvee. No concern of hers. 

Names. Living, working? Marriage status? Nationality? Girl-friend? Girl friend's nationality? She make it good? 

Was that how she had asked it? 

For a moment it seemed she had the powers of second sight, penetrating to the truth of the matter. Frank, enquiring smiles, almost a kind of understanding offered. 

She herself knew how to make it good. Made happiness. Just a few doors down. She pointed and might have given a name or number. There seemed to be understanding too that perhaps she wouldn’t win the trick there and then. No matter. It was something for the time ahead. Sooner or later. 

When she rounded back a second time a while after under the alcove with her pal in tow, again she pointed up at the same place, where she made happiness, smiling and nodding. The pal would know to make himself scarce so quickly that a fellow would never be sure whether he had been there in the first place

 

 


Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Forked Tongue


The jovial waiter at No. 29 Eatery on Geylang Road has little time for teaching. The place is too busy. There is little opportunity. The man has better things to do too, one can tell. Some frustration is evident. In addition, the ineptitude that confronts him is rather puzzling to him it seems. Doesn't quite know how to take it. Frowns of the sort he displays are not an entire put-on. On his side his own smattering of English is much better, more than passable. So what's the problem?
Ah, my dear boy!
A kind of Jack Nicholson look-alike, of the period after the actor had gone to seed. This chap's slide though has been rather premature, a number of years earlier than R. P. McMurphy Jack. Too much beer possibly. And straightened circumstances. Lack of money doing its usual cutting of chances.
It should not be so difficult. Two vocables. An educated, multi-lingual adult with good motivation. No lack of effort. Only to raise the frown every time, the shake of the head. An appeal for further hearings eliciting the bluntest of dismissals.
— A hundred times you can't get.
Initially TSI-UNG CHA(I).
Then TSUNG SOY and TSI-UNG SOY.
Finally, with outside help, some kind of improvement acknowledged on the last occasion - JIANG CHA.
Practice now having it coming along some little way finally.
Simple ginger tea. Heavily sugared always on Geylang, as the elderly sweet-tooths, who are the majority customers, prefer. A beer hall possibly not the best place to get up to speed on tea orders.
Many of the older waiters and waitresses have almost not a single word of English in that Geylang quarter. It is every bit as non-existent as the Mandarin of the very occasional foreign traveler who ventures into those parts. Inconsequential given the rarity of the meeting, one might be tempted to think.
R. P. Mc. Jack at No. 29 looks like he might have swung a punch in earlier days, like his doppleganger in the film. The number of missing teeth might not have all been the result of dental decay. As a consequence the Mandarin vocalizations none the easier to catch from him, all excuses aside. One would wager for his part the fellow is not used to a lisp either. Nothing thuggish about him, unlike some of the tattooed, shaven-headed and ringed lads manning the doors at the karaoke places opposite.
With the new regs Jack is required to stand off from the tables for his fags. Quick puffs taken that can't provide him his proper time-out. The fellow needs to be told about the projected new laws in Iceland at the moment. Nothing less than a doctor's prescription needed for purchase in that country in the years to come. If only that conversation were possible.
It is truly terrible the language problem. An enormously large gulf. Six or seven of the shortest, most common phrases simply impossible to sound consistently in an intelligible manner. This is not even considering written form. Far too late in the day for any of that I'm afraid. In Singapore too where they promote English so forcefully, this is no less unfortunate. One colludes with the imperial language without some proper resistance. On downtrodden Geylang this is especially significant. The poor, unfortunate non-English speakers there can only assume superior airs and belittlement from any Western traveler passing through. No doubt even those of the sort that seem to make-up to them with their various antics.

Batam


KFC coffee better than expected; no worse than Starbucks the day before. On the other side of the main crossing at Bugis Junction—one of the largest retail centers here—Maccas awaited. Not that one could get a seat there at the best of times. Foreign tourists, both Asian and Western, make that impossible. Would not surprise if there was a reservation system as at Toast Box a stone's throw away on North Bridge corner. Warm barley and Thick Floss Peanut Butter Toast (heavily sugared) $AUS3; Subway very popular. Moss burger, Wendy's, Honeymoon Desert. J. Coo Cafe, The Coffee Bean, The Coffee Connoisseur, all follow the pattern in decoration, junior staff in corporate gear and high prices for pre-packed fast food. (At Subway the first baseball-capped girl retrieved the selected bread roll and inserted the veggie pattie; next in the chain added pre-sliced veggies; third at the till and drinks a metre and half away wasn't needed at that late lunch hour, especially without the upgrade to a Meal. Latex-gloved number Two managed.)
         This morning at the KFC table Amy was more interesting than the newspaper. Indonesian by birth and five years in Singapore, Amy started here as a maid. Now she works for one of the many agencies. A difficult job, even confining herself to the Batam side of the business. Batam is Indonesian, much larger than Singapore, forty minutes away on the ferry. Amy travels there weekly. The recruitment side of the business on Java she shields herself from. Too hectic; too much to bear.
         Amy confirmed what Deny over the weekend tried to explain without being believed: the maids here pay the first six or seven months’ salary to the agencies. Deny's English was limited. A year in, Deny has received five months wages.
         The rest of Deny's report was not difficult to believe. Being inexperienced three hundred a month is her wage. They feed her well enough, though there was not always as much as she would like. Sleeping quarters in Deny's case was a Utility Room, a space added to some of the HDB towers some years after construction. Other maids bed-down in the laundry with washing overhead.
         Batam has been a planned destination for a while now. The Indonesians have arrangement with the Singapore for a SEZ—Special Economic Zone. Back a couple of weeks a friend revealed that many of the dark, broad ladies who hung at the Haigh Road stalls were from Batam. On the weekend police were checking papers of women around Tanjong Katong Complex opposite City Plaza. China, Malaysia, Myanmar, Indonesia neighboring not too far off, immigration and cheap labour is business as elsewhere.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Monkey Nuts



Raffles. Takes up an entire city block. Heavy Victorian landmark of its time. Boutique stores ring each balcony, with the hollowness such places exhibit for all their staging and illumination—antiques, dowdy high-end fashion, jewelry, intimidating shop assistants.
         The Long Bar was the destination. Goal: a Singapore Sling. $26 a throw, as advertised on the Net.
         “Monkey nuts" were part of the routine, salted somehow and lightly roasted in their shells it seemed. The husks were tossed onto the marble floor—flung in proper form. A fair dispensation in tidy-town Singapore. The flinging complemented the slinging—both were equally prominent in the Net mention.
         Em had to have a Sling; couldn't go to Singapore without. Being an understanding boy-friend, Neil went along. What was the guide supposed to do?
         One shrewd young couple who had dressed for the occasion sat at table perusing the menu, ate a few nuts and took pics of themselves, before rising and making for the door.
         Filled pretty much; almost entirely with ex-pats. Camera flashes every side. Lots of families, more so than romantic couples. One or two had the Sling ordered for under-age children, precocious girls. 
         Nothing raucous. No hunter-types returned from an outing in pith helmets. (On sale in the Chinatown stalls.) No safari suits. Brash Etonians had moved to the Intercontinental possibly. One Indian family were dressed as if visiting the Maharaja. 
         The monkey nuts were served in wooden boxes filled to over-flowing. Three people might empty the box in little more than an hour and a half if they went about it, had the waiters allowed. Twice our box was replenished, the first time something under half way. Management well knew how best to rid themselves of malingerers sitting on a single drink.
         Chap at neighboring table had a half yard of beer standing almost head high. Abschooner of Tiger, the local brew was $20. Sling or no sling, you were stung at Raffles.
Ticked off now a month in.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Ramadan


Three hundred and eighty five a week at a rundown hotel in a dowdy old quarter. Dorm bedding between eight and twenty available in the vicinity for $25 per night, mostly catering for travelers. A room of a similar size not far off in a newly renovated house that the landlord has turned into a small hostel offers savings of about eight hundred and fifty a month, housing mainly ex-pats on work contracts. A  prudent decision pending the last fortnight.
         Aircon, phone and ensuite sizeable luxuries at Hotel Joo Chiat. Peeling paint, holes in the bed linen, toilet roll for tissue paper. A couple of lights out, bedside wired with the one-speed tractor-cooler. The large window brings a refreshing morning breeze when the sun isn't blazing early.
         A multi-level commercial carpark immediately adjacent and supermarket adjoining. On the other side a wide grassy field where someone feeds birds in the morning. Like all grassland on this side of town, the ground is usually completely empty. The little park beside Guillemard sometimes finds some Indians on the bench seats. Last night the French horn player from the HDB block above City Plaza blew the overture to Aida, back turned to the dirty water in the canal. Young foreign workers make out on their free Sundays in the field beside Paya Lebar MRT; otherwise the heat does for the traditional recreation even where there are trees.
         Supermarket delivery truck at four alternate mornings and Indian night-shift crews carting the steel framing for the tenting being erected on all sides. The last few week the lads have had the look of circus performers shimmying up the posts barefoot for better grip; up on the peaks fifteen and twenty feet in the air the plastic cover is hoisted by ropes like a sail on a dhow. 

         Ramadan at the end of the month promises a large affair, visitors from Malaysia and Indonesia to be expected.
         Thus far one other Westerner encountered in the corridors at Hotel J. C., an older Dutchman who with his wife makes sure in Asia they stay away from Western tourists. No doubt the pair knew the significance of the green arrow on the ceilings in the rooms. In 233 it points toward a utility hatch of some kind, for the electrical wiring it was more or less presumed. When Neil and Emily visited Em was unable to sleep under a directive of that sort and immediately made the discovery. (The kiblat indicates the direction of Mecca, in the case of 233 turned to the south toward Australie.)
         Geylang Serai is the Malay quarter in Singapore, somehow miraculously guessed by Nance Ong as the most congenial for the newcomer. Indonesians are the largest part of the clientele; thus far no terrorists.
 

Chinatown 2


Three dozen playing; ten dozen perhaps congregating. Some of the games have a dozen looking on from the sides, two dozen closely focused, attentive eyes. The men soundless and mostly standing, studious in their regard. Within the walls of the nearby temple worshippers are less concentrated. (Reminds one of those mythical books said to so grip a man that he might read it through standing, leaning on a post. The Montenegrins say a person would listen to something truly captivating while rain poured behind their ears.)
         Chinese checkers one side; chess the other. The latter fifty cent-sized flat round disks carrying an identifying character. An inner city square of the usual size. Toward the reconstructed, highly ornate carmine-red temple there stands a stage where a concert was held a couple of weeks ago featuring old songs in a vaudeville-like presentation. On that night there were perhaps a couple of hundred people on plastic seats that had been arranged for the event—families, elderly, lovers, the lot, singing along, clapping, marveling. These board-games took place during the height of the afternoon heat. Middle aged and older men in thongs and tees down from the HDB towers. There were no women, only the occasional passer-by. The large food hall at the base of one of the towers; stalls of various kinds to the side; tourist aisles close-by always thronged. This quiet centre of Chinatown a little oasis.
         On all sides calm, patience, deference to age, a little larking at success and once or twice small gasps at errors. Numerous old leathered grandmasters heavily afflicted by their smoking, taking the habit full term. An outsider moving among them gets no notice whatever, such is the level of interest.
         Nothing comparable, nothing of a similar order imaginable in any Western country for the last how many decades?  


Chinatown  was published in the Hong Kong based Asian Cha Literary Journal, Dec 2013, under the title “Ancient China: Post- (Almost) LKY Singapore”

Durian




Wikipedia has much good information on durian. Good descriptions on the challenging matter of its smell and taste—sewerage, filthy laundry, rotten fruit, bitter almonds; &etc. (Laudatory description was the lesser part of the entry.) 
         If there was anything lacking it was sufficient attention to the texture of the fruit, both on the palate and in hand.
A burst old scrotum, Em suggested, getting close to the matter.
         The yellowy white sack of fruit inside the shell had within a little oval nut that wasn't easy to detect through the outer layers.
         Custard cropped up more than once in the discussion, for colour and surface texture more than anything else. This gooey tissue however stuck to the fingers like streaky glue. Like no other food known to man, at least not in its natural state. No doubt it was not meant to remain in the fingers so long.
         Skeins of stretched fibre clung to the tongue and refused to go down. Revulsion was no doubt part of the problem.   
         Equally, traversing the tongue to the back of the mouth and then tipping down needed more than jawing. A raw snail straight from the shell was likely easier to take, as its flesh would surely not distend and congeal like durian. 
         People fix on the smell as if that was the greatest challenge. That really was the smallest part.
         Political differences in Singapore or anywhere else were not divided any more strongly than on the two sides of the question of the King of Fruits, as durian was known by its admirers.
         With an admirable spirit of investigation, Neil got down three of the pods.
         Five or six dollars for a medium sized, something larger than a coconut, on the stalls in the streets.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

Art of Seeing 2


A hunchbacked dwarf trooping up Geylang last night. Like every other foot-slogger there, whether Chinese, Indian, working girl or labourer, the man paced with settled, perfect composure. 
         A working girl has prepared herself for the street, the adjustment for all the observation she will attract made in her room prior to coming down. But the five or six hundred dollar a month mainland Chinese or Indian labourer who toils day and night in the heat, how do they manage such ease and lightness? And then the hunchbacks and cripples? 
         Earlier Em had noticed a chap at one of the eatery tables with a large dark mole on his cheek from which sprouted 200mm hairs. That particular kind of sight is not common back home; but surely there are no fewer hunchbacks, cripples, bent, disabled or deformed. Are there fewer on the streets in cooler climates? Is it harder to brave our streets for some reason? Are cripples still targeted and attacked in Western cities? (Here such things are completely and quite unknown.)
         Emily had an interesting thought. Perhaps in the Chinese or Asian guise the crippled, maimed and the deformed are more striking to our Western eyes. Those particular, unfamiliar characteristics in that form recast the entire visual sensibility. A possible reason for our attention being drawn so strongly.

Joss Stick


A paper shirt! young Neil comes upon on Geylang, making the discovery in an instant. How did he know it was paper just passing casually like that?
         The shirt was wrapped in plastic display pack with firm backing. Fixed and rigid, nothing to indicate the material. The colouring was unusual, muted kind of hippy flower tones—pale sky-blue, faded pink and tainted vanilla. The button-down collar was another colour. Ruffs in a panel down the front to go under an unimaginable dinner jacket.
         Unlike at any other shop-front here, the woman in back remained at her station, uninterested in the customers.
         Overhead hung large, what seemed like plastic tip-trucks, also wrapped in cellophane. Some pairs of flip-flops, as they are called now, glossy and ornate. Understandably, Neil was puzzled.
         The shop signage was in Chinese characters; nothing in English. Not so exceptional on Geylang. The interior of the shop seemed to give a warning in that particular tone of Buddhist red. Were apples that colour in childhood—not toffee apples, apples from the tree? or had that been only picture-books? Fire engine red was close; Santa's tone too. A signal colour that transcends culture, never quite capturing the vividness of blood.
         It took a time to recall the previous trip here two years ago. Nance had been the guide then, a reluctant one at a similar shop at another location.
         Bundles of what could only be play-money, of some forbidding kind, mounted on a table inside the entry. The piles of shirts, the toy trucks and the rest were out on the footpath. They would need to be brought in at the end of the trading day. For some unfathomable reason, as if they were the prime lures, these articles were given the prominent position along the walk-way.
         On one wall inside a darker red, a crimson, of packaged incense sticks. Were they called joss sticks, this particular kind? The other night it had occurred to Nancy that Geylang Road gathered a remarkable array of commerce. Further up there was a shop of this kind beside a karaoke bar one side and car-tyre outlet the other.
         Even this second time round with Neil and Emily the wrong conclusions were drawn.  
         Wasn't the tendency everywhere to give the departed the best possible send-off? Little business empires had of course been built on the practice, this kind of shop a case in point. Wouldn't the paper tear trying to get it on?
         Cremation was only recalled months afterward, and the regular days of offering learned about after that. In the East burial was the exception.

Monday, July 4, 2011

Green City


Look on and wonder. Keep yourself from gaping you're doing well.
The fella kitted out in the corporate uniform: white polo with green leaves rising from the extremities—the sleeves, front lower band and more profuse again on the lower back. Grey slacks; matching shoes. 
But in fact not a corporate cleaning outfit at all. Look again…. More strictly, Garden Maintenance. Hence the leaves. (Corporate clean carries blue or yellow.)
Catching the fellow first-up gave the wrong impression. 
Trolley with a couple of large plastic buckets riding, parked beside the pots in the library forecourt lining the path toward the cafe entrance. 
Mex-Latino type initial impression; giving the smile even more so. Friendly sort up for a joke, fun to be around. 
Closer up the sub-continent was evident; perhaps the western coast around Goa. 
Zapata moustaches were all over now.
Greening the World We Live In waving over the rear of the polo.
In this company's case greening and polishing. 
The contract with the municipal authorities which oversee the National Library building & grounds stipulates keeping the plants weed-free, watered and fresh-looking. Therefore care over dusting and polishing the elephant-ears of the potted plants down here in the forecourt around the cafe. Kinda promotes growth perhaps too.
First sight with the rag out wiping and scrubbing it was CLEANER that flashed. 
Bent at the work. 
Circular motion. 
A bit of polish. 
Hard taskmaster that supervisor. 
All in a mistaken first flash.
Over-filling the pots once or twice, the man bends with the rag to soak up the spillage. 
Urban gardener. Civic pride. Certainly in Singapore. Bucket-loads in Singapore.
A report in the paper recently on a model Chinese city that had made great strides in re-vegetation. In that case the choice of trees to plant unfortunate. The model was Singapore.
Clean, as every visitor remarks—despite bad practices continuing in rabble Geylang

Antecedents - Malay Village Again


 

 

 

 

 

 

Some of the faces at the tables at Mr Teh Tarik straight out of Cafe d'Afrique in Footscray-town, Australia. Light skinned particularly displaying their Arab descent. It was the Hadhramaut traders from Yemen that brought Islam to this far corner, to the Malaysian Peninsular, the Indonesian islands, southern Thailand and the rest. 

Faisal and Fausi, the brothers who run the cafe back home, must have felt very much at home in Malaysia on their recent holiday. Of course on Malaysian territory proper there must have been countless echoes for them, many more than in Singapore. Here it is the area around the old Malay Village, more than anywhere else, that casts back into the history of the island.

Other histories apparent too in some of the dress, the behaviours and mannerisms, familial and gender relations, and much else at Mr Teh Tarik.

The old scarfed Malay great-grandmother across a couple of tables tonight showed many familiar gestures and mannerisms. In this case age a great leveler amongst peoples. Endurance and overcoming was the old woman's display, same as with so many aged here and elsewhere. Hers was a triumph over life, the ultimate attainment. Settled and patient. Resolved and adamant. Pointing the way.

The scarves the women wear present a fine ennobling. Such a powerful fashion accessory too in so many ways. Even some of the older women into their sixties create an allure. This old babushka sits opposite her daughter or daughter-in-law, their meal having been completed. Babushka's finger goes under the rim of her scarf, making a little half-circle over her forehead. Relieves the pressure of the band in front. With a tug at the back the scarf more comfortably seated now. That's right. Crumpled tissue used through dinner dabbing at her crumbs. Nothing worse than a disorderly celjade, our Baba at home would rightly say. Disorderly being or person.

Babushka's finger under her eye giving a little rub. The rhythm of the motion. Not much more than a jab. Lifting the hand up and out shortly after to declare, Enough. Let's away. For which daughter-in-law her prompt.

Without false teeth Bab was spared that endless discomfort. Never would she have endured them. Lifting the plate regularly to relieve the gum. Tonguing reflexively. Never at peace. Somehow Babi would have disposed of them. Flushed them down the toilet. Lost them somewhere where they would never be found. Kill me better, she would have demanded. It will choke me, she would have complained. Just like a horse! Certainly she wouldn't have borne it. Not Baba.

This old great-Babushka had managed.

Family scenes completely captivating. Ten or twenty groups nightly. Great Babushkas and granddads, sons with their numerous children, daughters-in-law. Relations between the different tables sometimes. Fifty or more tables every night packed tight.

Tonight the two kids opposite, the elder well into her teens, were not asked what they wanted to eat or drink. When the trays arrived with dad and dad's friend, the pair find they have placed before them an iced teh tarik each. Smiles subdued. All in the eyes. Cross referenced pleasure in brief flickered looks. The pause prior to digging in might have been waiting for the go-ahead from father or mother. Given in fact by dad's friend. This fellow was the host tonight. Earlier he had awaited their arrival. A Chinese. English the language of communication.

Naturally the kids know to keep quiet through the meal. They eat. The talk of father and his friend washing over their heads, little that can concern them. At a couple of points mother bends an ear. Some English in her possession.

         Earlier at table the Chinaman had asked the man how he liked Singapore.

 

 

 

Ex-offenders

.



The Indian ex-offenders regulars here at the cafe tables about this time of day, trying their luck among the after lunch crowd. Prospects at such a place perhaps rather better than elsewhere in the city. Four o'clock sees them land most afternoons. Briskly they go from table to table, two or three singly in the rows with some kind of pre-arranged order of precedence. The edges have been taken from their former, youthful selves — the underlying visible in the tattoos, their rangy, bouncy athletic stride, ear-rings that go beyond the bounds of fashion here. Rehabilitation programs inside achieved some kind of effect, one can see. A determined but entirely polite and patient approach from the lads. Rebuffs leave them unmoved. Here where they are given it is usually in quite a different manner to the abrupt hand-waving received by the tissue and lottery sellers.
         Among the tables they pass with a kind of confessional declaration of past crimes and misdemeanors, their incarceration specifically mentioned at the outset. A written, plastic sheathed statement they display backs up their verbal disclosure. Financial support they plead, which might not be the entire point of the exercise. In a second plastic pouch they hold there are key-rings for sale, made by themselves in prison, we assume. Some kind of elaborate craft in the pendant attached.
         Good to see purchases among the business crowd. A family group including three teenagers today bought a key-ring, with generous smiles bestowed by the well-to-do Grannie at the head of table. Worth the moral lesson for the youngsters without a shadow of doubt. Far more than words.
         Straits Times the other day reported the under achievement of the Indian community, when measured against the Chinese. Scholastic comparisons highlighted; reference to contrasts in "ambition".